


Always In This Twilight

by AndromedaPrime



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Character Death, M/M, Mech Preg, Post-War, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Transformer Sparklings, Trials
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 90,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8637598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndromedaPrime/pseuds/AndromedaPrime
Summary: The end of the Autobot-Decepticon War brings about a new set of problems. How to properly deal with the warlord with the spilled energon of millions on his servos is the most pressing of these issues - but when information pertaining to the Autobot Magnus's newly revealed carrying cycle is released, the matter is further complicated.





	1. Some Things Never Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> I've hopped onto the Megatron/Ultra Magnus ship as of late, and here is my contribution to this little vessel.

Optimus Prime held onto the staff of the Magnus Hammer with both servos, keeping his back strut rigid and his pace steady in the manner he’d learned from many stellar cycles of training under Kup Major.

The cracking lines across his faceplates ached and stung, the scars serving as a reminder of the battle that had changed the course of Cybertronian, and Earth, history forever. It had passed him by in a blur, but the poignant moments stood out in his processor with clarity. He could clearly remember the final thwack of the Magnus Hammer that had felled the Decepticon warlord, and he could recall the thoughts that had crossed his mind when Megatron had been at his mercy.

He could end it all. Revenge could be taken for the millions of Autobots that had had their sparks so cruelly extinguished by the grey-armored mech that he’d left behind in the plaza of Iacon with his fellow prisoners. He could swing the Magnus Hammer onto Megatron’s helm and end it all.

Then the thought occurred that the end would be far too easy. He didn’t deserve that. He had to answer for everything he had done.

And so he’d left Megatron, Lugnut, and Shockwave behind in the care of his team and the Elite Guard, in the center of Iacon’s largest plaza, as he’d been summoned by what remained of Autobot Leadership to Fortress Maximus.

The Magnus Hammer felt heavy in his servos, symbolizing the weight of Autobot Leadership that the title of Magnus bore.

“Optimus Prime.”

Optimus came up to the platforms that were the reserved standing places for the High Councilors. The highest of the platforms, the one reserved for the Autobot Magnus, was conspicuously left empty. He’d half-expected Sentinel Prime’s scowling visage to greet him from that level, but he found he could happily live without it.

The booming voice that had spoken his designation finally died away, and Optimus looked up into the blue optics that looked down at him from the second-highest platform. He was greeted by the visage of the most senior of all the high councilors, Alpha Trion.

There were two more platforms, one on each side of the Senior High Councilor. He recognized the bots standing on them as fellow High Councilors, though of a less senior status. Optimus Prime made certain that his backstrut was straight and the Magnus Hammer set firmly on the ground as he cleared his vocalizer. “Senior Councilor Alpha Trion, Councilors Botanica and Perceptor. It’s an honor to be called here.”

He saw how Alpha Trion turned his blue optics to Botanica and then to Perceptor. “No, Optimus Prime. Rather, it is our honor to be in _your_ presence.”

Optimus had a hard time not beaming at the praise being doled out, especially since all he’d had for a long, long time was admonishment and harsh words. He composed himself and nodded. “Thank you. If I may ask,” he cleared his vocalizer, “what was the purpose of my being summoned here?”

Botanica spoke this time, smiling at him gently, her shoulder struts relaxed. “You were summoned here, so we could give you our utmost gratitude for your recent actions. You’ve done what so many armies over so many millions of stellar cycles couldn’t do.”

Optimus found that he was uncomfortable with the comparison. It occurred to him that everyone that had fought for the Autobots as he did, and given their lives, deserved more recognition than he was receiving at this moment. He fidgeted where he stood, under watch by the Council, as he thought of what to reply with. “Thank you,” he said slowly, carefully thinking over his words before he said them. He straightened himself up again and met Botanica’s gaze. “But I won’t take all the credit. I didn’t defeat Megatron in one solar cycle – it took the many other Autobots that have fought like I did to… I guess soften him for me. The only difference is I got lucky in the end.”

_So my victory is for them._

He thought of Prowl for a moment – the ninjabot’s greyed form cradled protectively in Jazz’s arms. Optimus then crushed the thought, filing away to ponder over later when he was safe enough to openly mourn.

Perceptor spoke next, and Optimus shifted his gaze to the red-armored mech. “We hope that you will continue to set an example for the Autobots that our now former-Acting Magnus could not.”

Wondering what that example was, Optimus asked, “What do you mean?”

Perceptor looked over his spectacles at the red and blue mech. Optimus felt anxiety at the emotionless stare, though he had prior knowledge that the mech had had his emotional chip removed from his processor to better allow for more information to be stored in his memory banks. “Accepting praise with humility.”

“What he means is,” Botanica cut in again, tilting her helm at Optimus, “that he hopes we can look to you, the new hero of Cybertron, to keep the peace as much as possible. You may have captured Megatron and two of his top soldiers, but there is still a lot of trouble that needs addressing.”

Optimus thought that he should ask what that trouble was, but decided against it. He would learn soon enough.

“We thank you for the great struggle you have undertaken to defeat Megatron,” Alpha Trion’s voice boomed, large for such a slim frame, “and for stopping this conflict once and for all.”

“Or so we hope,” Optimus heard Botanica whisper from Alpha Trion’s right, her tone hushed.

That gave Optimus a foreboding feeling that he quashed to the same part of his processor as the need to mourn the loss of Prowl. He decided that it was best to not inquire further and just take the solar cycles as they came for now. Optimus nodded and didn’t give further acknowledgement of what Councilor Botanica had said. He glanced down at his pedes for a moment before looking back up at the mechs and femme looking at him. “I thank you again for the acknowledgement. Now my question is,” he cleared his vocalizer, “where do we go from here?”

The Councilors looked amongst one another, confusion momentarily written on their faceplates, and it became apparent to the young Prime that they were just as lost in a post-war universe as he was.

With any luck, he hoped, they would all be on the same page as they worked to figure out where they would have to go next.

“We have functioned for the vast majority of our lives in a war-torn universe,” Perceptor spoke slowly and monotonously. “The only logical answer is that we will continue leading Cybertron to the best of our abilities as time goes on. We will transition from a war-time government to a peace-time government as the solar cycles go on.”

Botanica and Alpha Trion nodded in assent. Optimus felt a gnawing sensation of hesitation in the pit of his tanks, but he quashed it. It was merely anxiety and stress, he told himself – all combined with the effects of his battle with the Decepticon warlord. He was tired.

All he wanted was a good, long recharge after a good long drink of energon. After that, he could wake and deal with reality.

“The one that we will look to in this time will be our Magnus. With that being said, come with me, Optimus.” Alpha Trion descended from his platform and walked to stand next to the young mech. “Ultra Magnus was roused from his stasis lock a solar cycle ago, effectively ending our Acting Magnus’s reign,” Optimus didn’t miss the look of relief that crossed Alpha Trion’s faceplates, “and he would like to speak with you.”

The thought of speaking to the ruling Magnus of Cybertron sent a thrill of panic through Optimus, though he knew that there was no reason to feel so apprehensive. “What does he want to speak to me about?”

Alpha Trion smiled, and Optimus felt the Senior High Councilor place a comforting servo on his shoulder strut. “About many things, young Prime.”

With those words hanging in the air, Optimus and Alpha Trion exited the High Council chambers.

.-.-.

The needle hurt his frame even before Red Alert stuck it into his protoform. He gave what he thought was a suppressed wince, but the sound of the medic’s voice reached his audio receptors.

“Stop whining. You’re worse than Sentinel when it comes to injections.”

Ultra Magnus lifted his helm and narrowed his optics at the red and white-armored femme. “Please never compare me to the Autobot that almost wrecked the entirety of the Autobot army, and with it the Autobot Commonwealth, in one fell swoop.”

Red Alert scoffed and removed the needle from the mech’s shoulder strut. “We need to ensure that all your sensors are onlining as they should. It’s been half-a-decacycle since you’ve had the repairs done, and a solar cycle since you were brought out of your stasis lock.”

And what solar cycle he’d been woken up to. Ultra grumbled, more to himself than to the medic, saying, “I wish I’d been brought out of it much sooner.”

Giving a long-suffering sigh, Red Alert tossed the needle in the nearest waste receptacle. “So the shock of being ripped into pieces by Shockwave would have offlined you? I don’t think so.”

“Well I have a duty to the Autobot Commonwealth and keeping us safe, Red Alert.”

“You do, when you’re fully capable of it, which you were not. It’s just an unfortunate circumstance that Sentinel,” Ultra didn’t miss how Red Alert’s tone grew to one of derision, and how her nasal ridge plating shifted, “was the only one immediately able to take up your title and duties.”

“I believe Rodimus, even in his current state of stasis lock, would have done a far better job than Sentinel Prime did.”

Red Alert deadpanned, “Sentinel’s own _chin_ would have made a better Magnus.”

“No, his chin is where he stores his ego and the source of his pretentious behavior. There would have been very little difference between the two of the them.”

Ultra stared at the ceiling and closed his optics against the harsh glare of the bay lights. He would readily admit to having done some very questionable things and pursued some ethically dubious projects in his time as a Magnus – but at the very least he’d never put the planet in jeopardy of being destroyed.

“-pity really that it’s so hard to remove a Magnus from power. There was never really a need to try and impeach you, but Sentinel… oh, _Sentinel_.” Red Alert said the mech’s name in a tone that he could tell was acid. “If there were ever a reason for that law to be repealed, look no further than him.”

A thought occurred to Ultra that made him half-smirk. “If it’s any indication of how I feel regarding him, note that I haven’t insisted that you use his full title of Prime when you speak of him.”

Another needle was jammed unannounced into his shoulder strut, making him yelp. Red Alert gently papped her servos on his neck and said in a not-very-gentle tone, “It doesn’t even hurt, stop acting like it does.”

“I never said it hurt. It was a surprise, was all.”

Red Alert didn’t say anything to that, but she lifted her free servo to her mouth. From over her digits Ultra could see her faceplates shift into a smirk. Before he could tell her to wipe it off, he was interrupted by the sound of the medical bay doors opening. A small white mech with a bright blue visor peeked in.

“Red Alert, Ultra Magnus has some visitors.”

The femme looked up and narrowed her optics, removing the needle from the Magnus’s shoulder strut. “If it’s Sentinel, tell him to slag off. Emphasize it’s from me, not you.”

First Aid shook his helm. “It’s not him! It’s High Councilor Alpha Trion and Optimus Prime.”

Oh, right. Ultra had all but forgotten about the message to Alpha Trion that he’d sent, asking to meet with Optimus privately in the aftermath of the Council meeting with the young mech. He looked up at Red Alert, sighed as he nodded, and then turned his helm to face First Aid. “Let them in once Red leaves.”

“I’m not about to leave you alone until I hear directly from you that you’re up to this meeting.”

He looked up at her again, flat expression on his faceplates. “I will be able to handle this meeting, Red. There is no need for your fretting at this time.”

Red Alert scoffed and flicked the spent needle into the waste receptacle a short distance from the berth. “I’ll be back in a quarter of a cycle to check your readings again. I’m not liking the looks of your internal pressure.”

“I think that is to be expected, given the absolute madness I was brought out of stasis into.”

“Oh, fair enough. First Aid,” Red Alert made a gesturing motion with her helm as she turned to face the young medic, “bring them in.”

First Aid nodded brightly and slipped out of sight, closing the door behind him. Red turned and gave a half-smile to the Magnus of Cybertron. “I’ll go easy on you when I come back, sir.”

Ultra sighed playfully and looked over at his repaired half of his frame, flexing his digits. The newly attached cables and neural net pinged a bit of tenderness back at him, but it was definitely dwarfed in comparison to the agonizing pain that he’d been left in before being put into stasis.

He heard Red Alert step out the front door, and waited for a few moments before heard the sound of the door opening again. Ultra looked up at Optimus as the young mech entered the medical bay, and smiled at him when Optimus’s optics met his. He then noted in his processor that he had probably never done such a thing around the young Prime – he was used to seeing him stern.

Optimus slowly made his way over to the Magnus’s berth. Ultra nodded at him, optics flicking over to the Magnus Hammer that was secured in Optimus’s servos. The first thing the red and blue mech did when he approached the medical berth was hold the Hammer out to Ultra. “I, uh,” Optimus started, clearing his vocalizer before continuing, “believe this belongs to you, sir.”

The Magnus nodded toward the wall nearest his berth, frame relaxed. “Lean it there for now. I can’t do much with it physically.”

Optimus nodded and leaned the Hammer against the wall. He held a servo out to the Hammer, making certain that it wouldn’t fall, before he took a seat next to the Magnus’s berth.

“I was under the impression that Councilor Trion was going to accompany you in.”

“Oh, no, he just told First Aid to show me in when he was able to. Councilor Trion said he had a few other matters that he needed to take care of.”

Ultra chuckled, thinking of the mess that had been made of Cybertron despite the capture of Megatron. “Of course he does. He is, after all, the second-most powerful mech on this planet. Meaning that he has the second-most amount of work and stress, just after mine.”

From the corner of his optics, he saw the brief smile that Optimus cracked.

“Going onto other matters,” Ultra did his best to muster the stoic tone of voice that was to be expected of a Magnus, “I asked for you to be brought here so I could give you thanks for what you’ve done. You’ve fulfilled the hopes of every Autobot that has come and gone, and those that remain behind to cheer you in your victory.”

It was incredibly endearing how the young Prime hung his helm, until Ultra remembered the reason for why Optimus would do that, which included being punished. And Optimus was most definitely not being punished.

Ultra thought back to a long time ago when he was much, much younger, and had a spark full of hope for the mech seated before him. Truthfully, that spark filled with hope had died away as he’d watched Optimus resign himself to his fate of being a maintenance bot for space bridges. Yes, he’d put him there… but he’d hoped that Optimus would one solar cycle fess up to the truth, because he knew deep in his spark that the story that was given to him at the long-ago tribunal was a falsie.

In-venting deeply, Ultra said what he’d felt for a long time, especially in light of very recent events. “I am so sorry that I held onto doubts about you, Optimus Prime.”

Optimus was very good about keeping his faceplates still so they couldn’t betray his emotions. His optics, however, widened a small fraction at the apology. That was always Optimus’s giveaway, much in the same manner that Sentinel’s agitated stumbling of his words were his betrayal.

“I believe it was the disappointment that I felt when I heard of your involvement with the incident surrounding Cadet Elita’s demise that overcame me and resulted in my dismissal of what is now obvious: your talent. You are a natural-born leader, and despite my warning to you so many stellar cycles ago – being a hero is not something that is programmed into a bot. Being a hero,” Ultra reached his good servo out and placed it on Optimus’s lower arm in a gesture of comfort, “is something that you become upon dealing with the stresses put onto you.”

Ultra could see the embarrassment rising in Optimus’s faceplates, and he decided to cut the rest of his monologuing short. He was good at that, he realized – monologuing. He cleared his vocalizer, sighed heavily, and looked at the ceiling of the room, furrowing his optic ridges together as he composed his next set of words in his processor.

When they came to mind, he pondered for a moment before saying, “I remember telling you that I saw you holding the office of Magnus one day. Well, I do have to say that though I still retain my title,” Ultra smiled, “when I saw you coming towards me with the Hammer in your servos… well, you look far more regal with the staff of my office grasped in your servos than Sentinel ever did.”

He saw Optimus smile awkwardly and lower his helm, saw the mech’s blue optics flicker towards the weapon leaning against the wall. The young mech cleared his vocalizer and stumbled a bit over his words before he managed to reply with, “Thank you, Ultra Magnus, sir.”

Then Ultra saw the younger bot’s optics darken slightly as he sighed and stood up. He looked at Ultra, and asked the question that the Magnus had tried not to think much about during his recuperation period: “What do we do now, sir?”

Ultra stared at the ceiling once more, sighing loudly. He placed his good servo over his optics before moving it away and hanging it limply over the edge of his berth. “I came into my office of Magnus when war was on the verge of breaking out. Soon after, our worst fears were realized, and now I don’t remember what a non-war government functioned as. That is where we go from here, Optimus.” He didn’t move his helm, but he did move his optics to look into Optimus’s. “We look to the past, take our cues, and forge a new future for post-war Cybertron.”

After millions of stellar cycles of being in the seat of power, he had become adept at knowing just what to say to put the minds of other bots at ease, even if he couldn’t convince himself of his own words.

But he knew he had to convince himself of his words in some way or another.

“I have hope that, with the bots we have now,” Ultra finally said, smiling with a small sparkle in his normally weary optics, “this transition into a new era of Cybertron will go smoothly.”

Optimus returned the smile he had been given.

The calm atmosphere was broken when the door opened and Red Alert came in, yet another large needle in her grip. Ultra knew by Optimus’s stifled laugh that he’d made a face at the medic.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.” The tone was snappish, but Ultra Magnus knew it was said in jest.


	2. Meanwhile a Man Was Falling from Space

He welcomed the lack of talking on the ship, finding a strange sort of comfort in the noise of the vessel’s engines running in the background.

The cheers and noise from the gathered crowd of jubilant Autobots had done a number on his processor, and he was glad to be away from it, even if said display of jubilation weren’t a severe affront to his dignity – or what remained of it.

When he had been taken aboard the largest vessel that the Autobots could find on such short notice, on his way to whatever blasted prison cell awaited his arrival, the Elite Guards that had been tasked with delivering him had spat at him and called him a myriad of slurs and insults, some of which were very clever, he had to admit. He had borne the humiliation with as much quiet as he could give, staring straight ahead and giving no indication that he’d heard them.

The little vessel that he and the remaining two of his lieutenants were jammed in jostled in mid-air. The background noise was interrupted by a growl from Lugnut to his right.

“Worthless Autobots, incapable of keeping their vessels up to date! They may just let us fall and crash into pieces.”

Shockwave spoke from his left, tone monotonous, “It’s not like we Decepticons were any better at maintaining our fleets of warships.”

The few words exchanged grated on Megatron’s neural net, and he gave each mech a severe look that demanded they shut their mouths before he tried to weld their lipplates shut. He’d probably try to rip away their vocalizers, if he had the ability to use his servos. However, the stasis cuffs around his wrists prevented him from doing so.

Shockwave got the hint quickly and quieted down. Lugnut took a little longer on the uptake, but when he got it he simply mumbled an apology.

Once the quiet had returned, Megatron stared ahead from where he sat, watching through the thin windows at the skies outside. It was getting darker the further from Iacon they flew, and the sky began feeling a lot heavier and charged with static. An electric storm – just what he needed for his frayed neural net.

“The storm will hamper our progress to wherever we are going,” Shockwave noted dully. “Another way these Autobots will continue to torture us.”

Almost as if they’d heard him (perhaps they had), the little vessel jolted again. Megatron was thrown forward and he mashed his faceplate against the floor of the ship.

Well, at least the floor was clean.

“Do you not have a plan to fight-” Lugnut began, but he was quickly silenced by a withering glace that Megatron threw over his shoulder strut. The singular optic’d mech grunted and brought his shackled servos up to his faceplates, as if hiding. Megatron sighed heavily and sat up, facing forward again.

More time passed them in relative silence, the static in the air giving way to another added source of noise – droplets of liquid falling from the sky and plinking off of the hull of the little ship.

The ship then shuddered, moments later falling out of the sky and landing roughly on the ground below. Megatron hadn’t been aware of how dark the interior of the vessel had been until the door slid open and he glimpsed the silhouettes of hulking frames.

Blue light from the optics was an immediate giveaway if there was any. The silhouettes walked closer, and he was able to see them individually. The head of the group was the bulkiest, the decorations on her shoulder strut denoting her as a Major. Two behind her had a stripe less than she, which if Megatron remembered correctly meant that they were Minors in the Elite Guard.

“Out of the ship, you Decepti-scum,” the femme snarled as she grabbed Megatron by his forearms. Normally, if somebot had dared to handle him the way this guard was, he would have had their helm lopped off of their shoulder struts within moments and pierced by a stake. But here, he had no power, no authority, and no Decepticons other than the captured ones following his pedes for company.

What poor company they were, Lugnut and Shockwave bickering behind him despite the group of prison guards converging on them and telling them to shut the frag up.

He was pushed forward and then shocked by a prod, prompting a loud growl from his vocalizer that then earned him another shock to his back strut.

“Forward, _now_. Welcome to your new home, scum.”

He didn’t give attention to whomever it was that had spoken. He hardened his jaw, and refused to look at anyone else or react to the insults that were muttered and thrown at him. The rain plinked onto his armor plating and rolled down the scratched, battle-worn surface in streams.

The hazy glow that he had seen in the distance from the shuttle became brighter and cleared in his vision, showing that it was a lighted sign over the entrance to the prison. The script on the sign was in the Autobot dialect, but he could decipher it – Autobot and Decepticon languages were so similar that there was little use in calling them different dialects/languages.

The sign read “Trypticon.”

Megatron stared at the text a little bit longer before he bowed his helm to pass under the arch of the door. Lugnut was crowing something behind him, but he paid the over-large mech no attention. Eons, many eons of being subjected to the unceasing adulations…

He’d had enough of it all.

Now, all he wanted in the end was to rest.

.-.-.

At his behest, they’d gotten the tests involving needles out of the way first. Ultra Magnus had done his best to rein in his grimaces and his “special effects” as Red Alert had called them before, but he had of course failed.

“Did you ever tell me why you dislike needles as much as you do?”

Ultra clenched his servo and let out a breath as Red pulled the fifth – and thankfully last – needle of this part of the exam out of his frame. “I’m averse to objects penetrating my frame where they shouldn’t be in the first place.”

He saw a flicker of mischief cross her normally cross faceplates, but then she made a noise in her vocalizer that had him saying, “What is it?”

“I was going to say something but I thought better of it.”

“Spit it out.”

“Does that mean you’re adverse to spikes in your intake?”

Ultra was very glad that he hadn’t tried drinking the energon ration that was at his berthside table, because he sputtered and gave Red Alert an incredulous look, to which the medic laughed and replied, “There was a reason I thought better of it.”

“Which means I should have thought better about asking you.”

Red Alert said nothing and only handed him the energon ration he hadn’t been ingesting. “Drink up. You’re low on nutrients. And,” the medic produced a scanning wand from her subspace and waved it a few times over her patient’s frame, squinting her optics at the results that popped up on the little screen, “I’m still not very happy with your level of internal pressure, but nothing I can do about it, it seems.”

Ultra gulped down the last drops of the energon ration and placed the cube on the berthside table. “Exactly. As I’ve said multiple times, it is a hazard of my position.”

“Yes, yes, I’m aware.” Red waved her servo and sighed. “I’m not very sure that you should be speaking to our recently captured prisoners of war, sir. You’re still in recovery mode, and if they try to do anything to you again-”

Giving the medic a stern look, Ultra held his left arm out for further examination of his responsiveness. “I am going to speak with Megatron, as I must. I was out of commission due to my injuries sustained from the attack for a prolonged amount of time, and as such, I’m eager to return to my duties.”

The thought of going to go and speak with the captured leader of the Decepticons sent a small thrill of anxiety through his systems. He would be going to the prison with a pair of guards and with heavy armor added on to further protect against any blows to his frame. Ultra hadn’t been inside the confines of Trypticon Prison in a long, long time. When he looked through the memories in his processor, he realized that the last time he’d been here was when he had been a Major in the Elite Guard.

Since then, he’d been a Prime, and then become the ruling Magnus of Cybertron.

So much time had passed, he realized for the thousandth time in the past few solar cycles. He had aged with the war. He had thought, at times, that he would pass on before he could see the end of it. And he almost had.

“-scans coming back fine for a mech your age. Your repaired side is responsive,” Red took a small mallet to his left knee and didn’t react when Ultra made a surprised noise and kicked his left pede, “and your spark rate is elevated a little bit but we’ll just keep an optic on that. Nothing I can do, I know. But I’m mandating that you take a solar cycle of complete rest before you get back on your pedes again. If I hear word that you got out of your quarters-”

“You’ll chase me down each corridor of Fortress Maximus with needles,” Ultra replied in a flat tone, giving the medic a glance. “I know, Red. I know the old threat. Though, it has gotten far less effective as you’ve yet to chase me.”

Red Alert smirked at him and threw the datapad with his discharge credentials on it toward his chassis. “Well, you haven’t given me enough of a reason just yet. Go, get rest before I decide to keep you here myself. I’ll want you back here every other solar cycle so Ratchet and I can run some more tests on you and make sure you’re getting back to speed.”

Ultra nodded and looked at the contents of the datapad as he stepped out of the medical bay, looking at the copied files of the scans of his internals. It was the first time in a long time that he’d needed this amount of medical attention, and it still always surprised him to see what it was that made him up.

Rest was on the agenda for just the remainder of this solar cycle, despite what Red Alert said. He had duties to resume as quickly as he could. He couldn’t take an entire solar cycle for himself just yet.

.-.-.

The sight of Jazz shocked him when he entered the ship bay to meet the two Elite Guardbots that would be accompanying him on the way to Trypticon Prison. Ultra nodded at the other bot, a femme, and asked, “Names?”

“Nitro,” she replied, smiling and showing off her blaster. “It is an honor to meet you faceplate-to-faceplate, sir.”

“The honor is mine. What is your rank?”

“Minor, sir. I was a cadet a few decacycles ago, but due to restructuring and losses in the ranks…” the bot sighed. “I was promoted. I’m not complaining, it’s pretty cool, but… anyway yeah.” She straightened her posture and saluted him, a salute that he returned with his free servo. After moving his servo back to his side, Ultra turned to look at Jazz.

The cyberninja was standing at attention, but the faceplates seemed pulled together a little bit tighter. It was a stark contrast to the normally relaxed expression that the white-armored mech had, meant to put everyone around him at ease.

Ultra knew why. When they were next alone, he would give Jazz his condolences for the loss of Prowl. He wasn’t entirely sure if the nature of their relationship was to be kept secret or not. Nodding at Jazz, who gave a brief nod in return, Ultra walked aboard the shuttle that was going to take them to Trypticon.

He settled himself in the bigger of the three seats, located behind the two chairs that were in front of the console controls for the shuttle. He put his arms on the rests and waited, staring out the window.

Jazz and Nitro seated themselves at the two seats, Jazz in the captain’s chair. The cyberninja cleared his vocalizer. “Puttin’ in coordinates for Trypticon. Scary place.”

“I’ve never been there,” Nitro said as the shuttle lifted. “How is it scary?”

The cyberninja piloted the shuttle out of the ship bay and set the course for Trypticon Prison. Ultra watched as Jazz stared at the shuttle’s computer, then turned partway in his seat to face the younger femme. “Dark, ominous, not somewhere you’d like to spend much time at. Just goin’ in and out ‘cause of our Magnus.”

“Jazz, you say that as if it were my entire idea.” Ultra leaned the Magnus Hammer against the nearest wall. “Sadly, it’s something that has been required of me since I have been in this position. I don’t remember whom it was that stipulated this, but I haven’t been in much of a position to refuse.”

“You’re Magnus; you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, sir,” Nitro stated, turning her helm to look at him over her shoulder strut.

Ultra regarded her for a moment, then sighed. “I would. However, I would have to do this either way. I’ve only faced Megatron in battle, and that was eons ago before I was ordered by the High Council to stay out of the field.”

He remembered being upset when he had been given that command by the High Council, and he had the right to refuse it, but now that he looked back on the millions of stellar cycles of fighting that had occurred… Powered Convoy hadn’t survived long because he insisted on leading the charge into battle, and had been felled in the fight.

The reason he himself had survived this long was due to the High Councilors being the stubborn bots they were, and insisting that he stay behind the scenes.

Ultra stared ahead and the little shuttle fell quiet for the rest of the ride. The relatively clear firmament over Iacon and its surrounding areas darkened the further they got from the capital city of Cybertron, and the closer they got to Kaon.

Liquid perpetually fell from the sky over Kaon. It rarely, if it ever had, rained in Iacon and most of the Autobot strongholds on the planet.

The shuttle made a smooth descent and landing on the shuttle pad that was laid out in clear view of the prison. Ultra got to his pedes and grabbed the Magnus Hammer from where he had placed it against the wall, and beckoned Jazz and Nitro to follow him out of the transport. A group of four Trypticon guards met him and his two assigned guardbots when he disembarked, and when they saluted him, he saluted back.

The ringleader of the group, who was also a Major if her insignia was anything to go by, spoke first. “We received word from the High Council that Megatron is to be placed on trial first. We had him and the other two Decepticons that had been captured with him in the same block, but we have him isolated now.”

“Good.” Ultra nodded at the femme and cleared his vocalizer. “Jazz, Nitro, you both will go with me, but only so far. I will let you know when to stay behind.”

Jazz made a soft noise of understanding, but he could tell that Nitro had a hard time swallowing the idea of leaving the leader of the Autobots alone with the displaced leader of the Decepticons. A noise of discontent came from her a moment before she said, “Sir, I hate to be the voice of dissent but I’m not certain that leaving you alone with Megatron is a wise idea.”

Ultra gave the recently-promoted Major a measuring look, then looked at the Trypticon guard. “Proper protection protocols have been put into place, have they not?”

The guard straightened her posture (and Ultra didn’t miss the dismissive look that she gave Nitro) and replied with, “Of course, sir. His weapons systems have been deactivated and he cannot wander far because he has been shackled to the wall. The chains allow him to pace around his cell, but if he tried to break free, well,” a smile crossed the guard’s faceplates, “he wouldn’t have a good time of it.”

Ultra looked back at Nitro and tilted his helm partially to the side. “Does that put you at ease?”

Nitro seemed loathe to admit it, but she sighed and nodded.

“Good. And so we shall proceed.”

.-.-.

Many of the cells in the prison were empty on the first floor. That brought him some semblance of relief, before he remembered that Decepticon sympathizers and Autobot criminals were confined to the upper floors.

Trypticon reached as far into the ground as it did into the foreboding sky above.

Jazz and Nitro followed him as he descended the floors on a lift. An Elite Guardsbot was waiting on the second-to-last level when they stepped off the elevator.

“Megatron is on this level, is he not?”

The mech nodded. “Surrounded by an army of Elites.” He gave Jazz and Nitro a sideways glance. “They going in with you?”

“No. I’ll be entering and meeting with Megatron alone. I don’t want anyone to come to my aid unless I require it.”

The Guardsbot looked concerned, but he waived Ultra through anyway. If there was anything that Ultra was grateful for in his position of Magnus, it was that few bots bothered to try and argue with him. It was kind of the last thing he needed at this point in time.

It was supposed to be a short meeting until he saw the accused again at trial. All he had to do was read the charges against the accused, and see if they had anything to say in their defense.

Ultra wondered if Megatron would try to say something, and if he did, what exactly the deposed Decepticon warlord could come up with.

He wandered down a dimly lit corridor to the set of large doors that was at the end of said hallway. There was no window that let him see into the room beyond; he almost wished he could have seen Megatron at first before having to come faceplate-to-faceplate with him, to mentally prepare himself for the upcoming ordeal.

Pausing in front of the set of doors for a brief moment to compose himself, Ultra tightened his grip on the Magnus Hammer, and then entered.

The room was larger than it had looked on the outside. In the back reaches of the room was a large cell that, Ultra realized, took up exactly half of the entire chamber. There was Megatron, the grey-plated mech shackled to the wall, just as the head guard had said. A thick pane of glass separated the Decepticon and the Autobot.

He tried not to make it obvious, but he gripped the handle of the Hammer a little tighter than he thought was possible. He cleared his vocalizer and closed the distance between the doors and the cell, letting the double doors close and shut behind him.

When the noise of the locks clicking into place echoed in the room, it got Megatron’s attention – the big mech raised his helm and looked at Ultra through the pane of glass, and watched with rapt optics as Ultra shifted to the side and hit a button that was close to the cell pane. The glass lifted in an instant, replaced by intense violet beams of energy that surrounded sturdy metal bars that crisscrossed in a perpendicular pattern.

“Are they treating you well here?” Ultra asked.

Megatron’s faceplates shifted slightly in a look of shock, before the plates returned to a more normal position for the harbinger of Autobot deaths and destruction. He nodded.

“Good. We wouldn’t want to give you further reason to despise us. If anything,” Ultra moved closer to the cell and to Megatron, “I will say I’m much more lenient with prisoners than Sentinel Prime would have been. He paraded captured Decepticons through the streets of Iacon when I-”

Suddenly, a large, dark servo reached out and stroked his faceplates, prompting the startled mech to jerk his helm back and shoot a servo up between them, blocking the offending servo from a closer approach. Ultra became aware of the dichotomy within the gesture.

Red optics looked into his own blue ones, and within the crimson glow he saw exhaustion brought on by millions of stellar cycles of warfare. For a moment, a fleeting blink of his optics, he commiserated with the sorrowful mech he saw deep in Megatron’s spark.

Only for a fleeting blink. And then the commiseration was gone.

“You,” Ultra said sternly once the shock of his faceplates being stroked wore off, “are _not_ allowed to touch me.”

Megatron still kept his servo in the air where it had been shoved aside, looking at the other mech through softened optics that unsettled Ultra more. The expression was unnatural, a disparity between what he knew Megatron to be like and what Megatron was like in this moment. A flicker crossed over Megatron’s optics, as if he were deciding on something.

“I must say, Ultra,” the grey-armored mech said through the bars after a brief silence, drawing his shunned arm back into the confines of the cell and curling his servo around one of the thick rods, “I’ve always had a strong admiration of your tenacity.”

“Ultra _Magnus_ ,” Ultra acidly replied, his optics harsh and bright as he glared at the Decepticon warlord. “Only select bots have explicit permission to address me simply by my given designation, and the last time I was aware you were not on the list.”

“Fine then. Ultra Magnus. You’ve always been a most formidable foe, and though we were on differing sides throughout this entire conflict-”

“We were leaders of differing sides.”

“Yes. We led different lives, led different sides. However, that was a mere technicality in the fact that I’ve always admired you as a leader.”

Ultra was struck silent by the openness that the warlord was displaying right now. He went still, and could only watch with rapt optics as the large mech that had been the harbinger of death for so many millions of Autobots began to pace his cell and continue speaking. “I’ve always admired how you retained the ability to whip your soldiers into shape and make them move as one being. Always so prompt, praising when necessary and admonishing when the situation called for it. And I might add,” Megatron stopped and looked at Ultra through the gaps in the bars, “you’ve aged well.”

His processor reeled. Of all the routes that he thought this would have gone, this hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“We’re getting far off topic.” Ultra set his lipplates in a straight line and huffed, vents opening and expending heated air. “If no one has told you yet, the reason for my visit is to let you know of the charges against you, as you will be the first one of your group of Decepticons that Optimus Prime captured to be put on trial.”

Megatron waved a servo. “I know what they are. Crimes against Autobots.”

“Crimes against the international community, not just Autobots, and not only Cybertronians,” Ultra bit out. “An untold number of murder charges, and you are also being charged with conspiring to murder the head of the Autobot faction.”

Red optics looked at him with resignation. “That’s what you think, is it?”

Ultra narrowed his optics at the other bot, unamused. “Shockwave acted on your orders, I’m certain.”

Megatron shook his helm vehemently. “Shockwaved acted out of desperation. I never instructed you to be harmed once you were taken off the battlefields so many eons ago.”

Ultra, upon realizing that the grip on the Magnus Hammer had been loosened, re-tightened it. “Your trial will commence within the decacycle. You will be offered defense, or you may speak of your own accord.”

A half-smile crossed the Decepticon’s faceplates. “What Autobot in their right state of processor would come to defend the mech responsible for so many millions of Autobot deaths?”

He had a very fair point, Ultra decided. He exvented. “So you will speak in your own defense, then.”

Megatron gave a one-shouldered shrug. “If you may call it that, then yes, I will.”

Backing up a few paces from the cell, Ultra moved the handle of the Magnus Hammer slightly upwards to let his free servo take hold of it so he gripped it in both hands. He regarded the large mech warily. The actions and words from earlier still whirled through his processor. “Now that you have been informed of the charges that will be brought against you at trial,” he began slowly, “do you have anything to tell me in your defense?”

The grey-armored mech regarded Ultra as well, then shook his helm.

After deploying the thick glass pane to separate them again, Ultra turned and left the room.


	3. A Year Like This Passes So Strangely

“Sir?”

Ultra suddenly realized that he had been staring out the window of the shuttle with a little bit of an intense gaze. He blinked his optics and shook his helm to get his bearings, reopening his optics and looking at the bright blue visor that hid the cyberninja’s own. He sighed and drummed his digits on his knee joint. “Simply thinking of a few things, Jazz. It is nothing to get concerned over.”

It was clear that Jazz didn’t entirely believe him, but the white-armored ninja knew better than to try and press the issue. He gave a brief, almost curt nod, then turned to look back out of the main window. The rain was clearing the further they flew from Kaon, the sky brightening the closer the transport got to Iacon and Fortress Maximus.

He looked at the co-captain’s seat and saw that the second pilot was leaning in her seat, supporting her helm by a servo and arm that was bent and placed on the console.

“Are you fine with Nitro being in recharge?”

“Just on auto-pilot right now, sir. She can recharge all she wants.” Jazz fumbled with the controls for another moment. “Told me when we were waitin’ for you that she hadn’ gotten much recharge the past coupla nights.”

“How much longer until we reach Iacon?”

“‘nother cycle, about.” Jazz tapped his blocky digits on the console before he turned and looked again at Ultra. “How’d scrappin’ with Megatron go?”

With those words, Ultra felt the ghosting touch of the warlord’s servo on his faceplates again. He shook the sensation away and put his digits together, touching them to his lipplates and sighing. “Megatron is more cognizant of his crimes that I thought he would be. I offered him, as I always do, the opportunity to have someone speak in his defense. Do you want to know what he responded with?”

Jazz gave a minute nod of his helm.

Ultra gave a soft chuckle. “He asked what Autobot in their right processor would step up to defend him at trial.”

“Hmm, I’ll agree with him there.” Jazz turned to gaze at the console again before looking out of the window. Ultra didn’t miss how the one servo that was in his view closed into a fist. “I sure as slag wouldn’ even try to protect him if I got assigned to guard duty.”

A dark look crossed over the cyberninja’s faceplates, and Ultra felt the wan smile slacken off of his faceplates as he remembered the reason behind those exact words. Glancing again at Nitro and her recharging frame, he sighed heavily. “I meant to wait until we were both alone, but I believe this is as private as it will get. I want to express my condolences to you about Prowl’s sacrifice.”

Part of him prepared to give the usual script that he’d given so many grieving relatives of deceased Autobots over the stellar cycles – that their sacrifice was not in vain. He was required to say it, but he knew it was little comfort to many of them. It would be little comfort to Jazz. And so, he ceased preparation and let his condolences hang in the air.

The cyberninja didn’t respond for a few more moments, instead staring at the closed fist on the console. The high towers of Iacon got a little bit closer in the horizon when Jazz responded, “Prowl an’ I were plannin’ out our lives after the war. Was gonna resign from the Guard, start up teachin’ metallikato to him full-time an’ teach more students. Now…” Ultra didn’t miss how the mech’s voice cracked a little bit. Jazz cleared his vocalizer. “Don’t know what I’ll be doin’ now.”

Nitro stirred in her chair and yawned, but she didn’t rouse from sleep. Ultra looked at her before looking again at Jazz. Or rather, Jazz’s backstrut, as Jazz had turned himself a little away from Ultra so he wasn’t completely showing his side, but rather his back.

“If you wish to resign from the Elite Guard, Jazz,” Ultra sighed after a long silence that brought the towers of Iacon within throwing distance, meaning that Fortress Maximus was just beyond the looming edifices, “I will not ask any questions, nor will I blame you. You have been through a lot.” He nodded. “You’ve done what your duties asked for.”

He could see that Jazz was considering it. Selfish though it was, he was very relieved when the white-armored bot ultimately shook his helm in the negative. “Gonna glitch if I don’t have somethin’ to do for now. Think I’ll stay. Don’t have anythin’ else goin’ on or to look forward to.”

The shuttle fell into quiet again as Jazz directed the ship towards Fort Max, sending a request for the ship bay doors to be opened. Nitro stirred from her recharge, stretching her arms out. “That was fast,” she muttered tiredly.

.-.-.

“I told you,” Red Alert whapped the ruling Magnus of Cybertron over his helm with her free servo, “to take one full solar cycle of rest before you went to go and read your spiel to Megatron, and of course you disobey my order.”

Ultra gave the medic a smirk. “You should know better than to think I’d follow your orders, Red. However, I did take one full solar cycle of rest after I met with Megatron.”

Red stared at him for a few moments, then rolled her optics and huffed as she reached into her subspace and produced a datapad. “I forgot to give you these when you were last discharged.” She none-too-gracefully placed the pad in his servos. “They’re referral forms that need to be filled out to let you be able to schedule appointments with our mental health counselors.”

That was new. Ultra raised an optical ridge and looked down at the forms on the datapad. His optics glazed over slightly, processor half-registering the words that had been written in Red Alert’s writing. It was something about suggesting that he receive counseling due to the attack inflicted on him by Shockwave.

Clearing his vocalizer once, Ultra looked up at the medic and said, “I think I’ll be just fine, Red Alert. I’ve lived through many of these attempts before.”

She crossed her arms over her chassis. “Yes, but none of them got as close to a success as this one did.”

Well, he did have to acknowledge that point. Ultra sighed and looked down at the datapad again, rereading the text before he stored it in his own subspace. “I’ll think about it.”

“You really should start attending counseling sessions. Ru-”

Ultra cut her off with a curt tone. “I said I will think about attending sessions, Red. I am not going to commit to something at this point in time. Not when I have many other problems occupying my processor.”

He realized what he’d done and looked at the medic apologetically. “I’m sorry that I took that tone with you. It’s simply… much to think about. Megatron’s trial is coming up very soon, and I know that the entire process will be a lot to deal with.”

The femme’s servo gently rubbed his backstrut in a comforting motion. “And all of Cybertron’ll be watching.”

“That is another thing to think about.” Ultra stared at the wall ahead of him and frowned slightly. “I’ve never particularly enjoyed being in the spotlight. The press covering the trial and my every sentence and my every move will be a drain on my energy, and I don’t have enough of that.”

Red made a snorting noise, and another cube of energon was waved under his olfactory sensors. Ultra looked at it, then took it in servo and drank it as the medic said, “I know that, and that’s why I’m telling you that you need rest, and you also need to take your energon. And don’t dare argue with me, because if Ratchet were here he’d tell you the exact same thing.”

“Oh. You’ve been talking to him about me, then?”

“Well of course I have. He and I are the only fully-trained medics left on Cybertron.” Red took the empty cube of energon from his grip. “While you restore order to democracy in the commonwealth, he and I are going to focus on training First Aid to full-time medic status so Ratchet and I aren’t so awash with patients. And that now reminds me,” she tossed the empty cube aside into a waste receptacle, “how did the talk with Megatron go?”

Ultra got a slightly terrible sensation in his tanks and turned one of the corners of his lipplates downward into a half-frown. In-venting deeply, he released the air from his intakes. “About as well as I could expect. At the very least he acknowledges that no Autobot will come to his defense due to his actions.”

“Well,” Red gave a derisive laugh, “I expected him to talk your audio receptors off about freedom from Autobot tyranny.”

He looked at the medic. “I expected the same as well. And part of me wonders why he truly seems to have given up.”

Red made a half-shrug and turned away, walking toward the cabinets and shelves that she had medical supplies stored in and on. “Maybe he thinks it’s better to die a martyr? I expect him to put up a fight when he goes to trial.”

Thinking of it for a moment, Ultra nodded. “I expect that too, then.”

“Right. Now you, sir, better go and get that full solar cycle of rest I ordered.” A clean washrag was thrown at him and got caught on one of Ultra Magnus’s audio fins. He reached up and grabbed it, placing it on the berthside table as Red Alert continued, “I have plenty of injections to chase you with. Would you like the injection for energy boost or the one for repairing your frame with nanites?”

“Well, given what is coming up,” Ultra smirked at Red, “I think I’ll take the energy boost injection.”

The medic gave him a flat look. “A solar cycle of rest will give you that, painlessly. Now go.” She shooed him out of her medical bay.

.-.-.

_His vents were running, frame hot against the other frame pressed to him._

_Red optics looking down at him, hunger and lust, gleaming._

_Light, flitting touches of his chassis plates and his abdominal plating, digits trailing over his pelvic plating and leaving heat and fire in their wake as they reached his closed interfacing panel. The tips of the digits circled around the closed cover, and he arched his hips into the enticing touch._

_His panel opened, and the digits wasted no time in shifting lower to stroke the plump, moist folds of his valve._

_An obscene moan left his vocalizer before he could stop it, rolling his hips into the servo that circled his valve, thumbing over his anterior node._

_“You like this, don’t you?” came the soft voice that he’d heard before. Ultra didn’t have to ask who spoke - he already knew, but he found that he didn’t care as he gasped around the digits that hooked into his mouth, enticing him to suck on them and lavish them with his glossa. “Have you ever had another bot touch you like this, I wonder.”_

_The thumb on his anterior node pressed down and the digits circling his valve suddenly sunk into the hot, moist opening, making him cry out in surprise as his internal nodes were stimulated. More, more, more, he pleaded, needing to be touched._

Ultra gasped and woke from his recharge cycle, optics onlining to the faint light of night sky stars streaming through the window above his berth. He took a brief moment to orient himself, and then noticed that his right servo was settled on his frame a little lower than it normally was during recharge.

Then he noticed that his digits were circling around the rim of his valve, which was admittedly fairly well lubricated. He moved his digits away, bringing them to his faceplates and seeing that he’d gotten copious amounts of the fluids on them. Sighing, Ultra got up from his berth and wandered into his washrack, using his cleaner servo to activate the showering functions.

He cleaned the lubricant from his other servo and from between his thighs, trying to put the sultry voice, the hot vents, and the light digits that played him like an instrument out of his processor. It was wrong, wrong on all accounts.

Blasted Decepticon. This had to be his Primus forsaken plan all along. If he weren’t going to have the war end his way, he was determined to get something go according to his plan, wasn’t he?

Ultra noticed how his servo twitched and an odd pang of longing filled his lower regions the closer he put his digits to his valve to clean the mess. He drew his servo away and frowned, huffing as he willed the longing away. He had no time for this.

In-venting deeply, Ultra wiped the fluids away from his valve and inner thighs as quickly and efficiently as he could, refusing to give in. When that was said and done, he shut the showerhead off and used a clean sheet to wipe off the excess solvent, hanging it on a rack so it could dry off and returning to his berth.

He wrapped his arms partway around himself, sighing heavily and staring at the ceiling of his room. The faint longing returned, and he put his thighs closer together to quell the heat.

No. This was unprofessional beyond measure, and he refused to give into it.

It had to be Megatron’s plan the entire time. He wanted him to be distracted so he couldn’t function properly when the time for judgement came around. Well, Ultra thought, pity on Megatron. He would deliver the final verdict, but he would not have the ultimate say in the sentencing.

Ultra sighed and closed his optics, willing himself to go back to recharge. Despite Red Alert’s orders for an actual full solar cycle of rest, he had other things to do. He would just do his work inside his quarters – but he couldn’t function if he didn’t settle down for a while.

_Something thicker than digits rubbed against the wet folds of his valve, stroking his excited opening in an agonizingly slow pace._

_He gasped and looked into the vermillion optics that gazed at him._

_“Please,” he begged._

He woke again to stars that had shifted position. Ultra groaned in disgust and disappointment when he lifted his right servo from between his thighs and his valve clenched around air in longing, missing the stimulation.

.-.-.

“You okay there, kid?”

Optimus looked up at the medic staring at him curiously. He waved a servo and sighed, shifting his gaze away from the normally-curmudgeonly mech. “Fine. About as fine as I can be.” Then he closed his optics and admitted. “I don’t know.”

Ratchet handed him the cube of high-grade that Arcee had just bought him and that he’d just taken. Optimus opened his mouth to protest it, but Ratchet gruffly said, “I’m not the one testifyin’ on behalf of all Cybertron against Megatron. You need it more than I do.”

He couldn’t exactly argue with that. Optimus looked into the cube of high-grade and immediately downed it before he could reconsider.

From Ratchet’s other side, he heard Arcee talking to the bartender and asking for another cube of high-grade. Optimus, for the umpteenth time, was grateful that not all of the lights of Maccadam’s Oil House were functioning, leaving the three of them cast in shadow. It was also a very, very good thing that none of the dozen or so bots in the bar were interested in chatting, all of them too focused on their own cubes of high-grade energon and oil.

“Don’t tell me you’re gonna need another one to get talkin’.”

“No Ratchet, I don’t need another one.” Optimus put the empty cube on the table a little harder than he’d intended, the noise prompting Arcee to look at him curiously. “I just don’t know what to say when the time comes and I have to get up and give my testimony. I’m not looking forward to seeing Megatron again.”

The medic snorted. “Don’t exactly blame you. Thought they woulda stuck him in prison and be done with it.”

Arcee gave Ratchet a look. “It’s one of the things I taught younglings before I became involved in the war. Every accused bot, by law, has the right to a fair trial.” Then a blank expression came over her faceplates for a few moments before she sighed. “Though, who would really give Megatron a fair trial?”

Optimus found himself suddenly wanting and needing a second cube of high grade. He traced the tip of a digit around the edge of the cube. “You took the words from my processor.”

The bartender that Arcee had spoken to came back with another round of high-grade cubes, dishing them out and leaving without a spoken word. Optimus grabbed the cube that had been put in front of him and chugged it, feeling the high-grade permeate his systems. He put the cube down and sighed. “Over the past few solar cycles I’ve been feeling the effects of the war. I could put it out of my processor while it was still going on, but now with nothing to do and nothing to fight, I’ve been feeling it.”

Nights had been spent waking up intermittently, processor racing and spark pulsing with a lot of force behind it. He shook his helm. “I was pretty sure I was going to die in that last battle.”

Both Ratchet and Arcee exchanged looks. The young Prime wanted to draw into himself. He’d hoped that the flashbacks would have ended after his encounter with Earth spiders that reminded him of the fate that befell Elita. Now, however, there he was, cringing at the thought of facing the Decepticon warlord.

“Optimus,” Arcee began, reaching across the half-circular booth and putting one of her servos on his. “You should consider counseling or therapy. You’ve been through a lot.” She gave Ratchet a knowing look. “We all have.”

He looked at Ratchet too, but the medic was gazing at Arcee and giving her a half-grin. “It’s understandable that you’d be feeling this way.”

The red-armored mech looked down at the last bits of energon in the cube and contemplated drinking it. “I didn’t feel anything before.”

“You never fought Megatron like that before, kid.”

He had to admit that Ratchet had a point. Optimus sighed and drank the last of the energon in the cube, setting it next to the other empty one. “There’s a lot of other mechs and femmes that could use the therapy more than me. I’ll be okay.”

“Sure kid? ‘cause I can set you up pretty quick.”

“I’ll be fine, Ratchet. I just need to get my testimony against Megatron over with.”

Optimus kept his optics on the empty energon cubes to avoid the looks that he knew the other two were giving him. He closed his optics and repeated to himself that he would be fine after the trial.

“Well,” Ratchet groused after a few moments of quiet. “The offer’s always there kid. Just lettin’ you know there’s nothing shameful ‘bout gettin’ help.”

Letting out a deep exvent, Optimus looked into Ratchet’s optics and saw the weight of a war that he’d seen from the start. Compared to him and Arcee, Optimus’s experience had been a nanoklik in the grand scheme.

And at least Megatron had been captured. Their own demon was still at large.

“Maybe after the trial.” Optimus said slowly, not wanting to think about the frenzy that would begin in two solar cycles’ time, when Ultra Magnus called for the trial to begin. “We’ll see.”


	4. Like the Stars Chase the Sun

Tomorrow he would come faceplate-to-faceplate with his defeated adversary. He found himself looking forward to it a little less than he thought he would have.

The datapads weighed heavy in his servos.

Ultra looked up and stared at his reflection in the window, looking out at the bright lights of Iacon as they shone through the night. He gave a quiet sigh and debated whether or not he should have opened the window, but then he decided against it. Chances were that there would be lots of celebrating that he could hear from his quarters, and excessive noise was the last thing he absolutely needed.

The datapads called his attention again. He looked down at them, setting them on a small table that was just below the window in the common room. There was nothing in those datapads that he particularly wanted to read, but he knew that he had to.

Putting it off for a few more cycles was a bad idea, but he was going to go with it anyway.

Was recusing himself from the case even an option?

The Autobot Commander thought back to the initial meeting with Megatron. He raised his servo to his faceplates and found himself gingerly touching the area where the Decepticon warlord had caressed him.

_“And I might add, you’ve aged well.”_

He pulled his servo away and held it stiffly to his side, trying to put the image of Megatron’s softened faceplates out of his processor. No one else knew about the encounter. Though nothing came of it, he wasn’t sure whether he was doing the right thing in keeping Megatron’s little indiscretions to himself.

He would be able to see this trial the rest of the way through. The other mech had to face justice for his wrongdoings. And he would have to make certain of that.

It was then that he noticed that his other servo was touching his cheekplate, where Megatron had rested his large, black servo. Pulling it away, Ultra grabbed the datapads from the table and retreated to his room.

Still, he couldn’t exactly find the state of processor to focus on the datapads. He knew what they contained. Legal jargon, all pertaining to the process of a trial as he hadn’t officiated over one in quite some time.

He turned on the news feed in his berthroom, trying to give himself some distraction, but he was then met with a picture of Megatron being flashed on the screen, with the news anchor on shift droning on about the upcoming trial. Ultra sighed and shut the feed off, plunging him back into darkness.

The ghost of the servo was on his faceplates again, the caress of _“you’ve aged well”_ tickling his audio receptors. He closed his optics, reopened them, and grabbed the datapads, turning them on.

.-.-.

The opening of the trial was being broadcast around Cybertron and to the other planets that belonged to the Autobot Commonwealth.

He had been against it, but he had been overruled by the remaining High Councilors. He tried not to look at the cameras that were focused on him as he ascended the highest platform in the court room.

The lighting in the room was much brighter than what he had been used to. It was also far more crowded than he liked – hundreds, possibly up to a thousand onlookers, many of them bots that had lost relatives to the servos of the mech standing below him, and they were seeking justice for those that had been extinguished by a violent servo.

Out of the corner of his optics he could see the lenses of the multiple cameras focusing intently on him. Ultra closed his optics and took that brief moment to compose himself before he raised his servo, his nonverbal signal for decorum.

In a nanoklik, the buzzing noise in the court room ceased, plunging them all into silence. He reopened his optics. “Opening statements will commence.” Ultra turned and looked from his platform to the looming, grey warlord that stood on the lowest level. “Does the accused have any words to say at this point in time?”

Megatron leveled a dull look at him, then shook his helm in the negative.

Sentinel Prime was very eager to begin throwing accusations – all of them true, Ultra knew that well enough – but the Magnus of Cybertron decided that he would have a little bit of fun by continuing to hold silence after Megatron’s refusal. A nanoklik passed, heavy and full of anticipation from everyone in the court chambers. He knew that if it were possible, Sentinel’s protoform would have jumped straight out of his armor.

Ultra then decided that he would put them all out of their misery, and tapped the handle of the Magnus Hammer on to the floor beside him. “Will the prosecution begin and address the Autobot High Council?”

The mech couldn’t get his own words out quickly enough. “Thank you!” Sentinel did an about-face and looked at the High Councilors. “Honestly I’m not even sure why we’re having this trial. The law of the Autobot Commonwealth says that everybot is assured a fair trial. However, fellow Autobots, we do not look upon a fellow bot, but rather,” Sentinel turned and looked at the Decepticon warlord (Ultra could have sworn the mech was actually gesturing to Megatron with his chin), “a monster.”

From the second-highest platform in the court room, Alpha Trion cleared his vocalizer loudly and clapped his servos with a force that sent the sound bouncing off the walls. “Inflammatory statements do not comprise a proper opening statement, Sentinel Prime.”

Sentinel gave the most senior of the High Councilors a smug look. “They’re not inflammatory statements if they’re true.”

Ultra almost sighed and put his helm in his servos, but the faint whirring noise of a camera focusing on something reminded him that he was in the spotlight. It took all of his willpower to not make such a public spectacle of himself, so he focused on Megatron, staring the mech down.

It seemed a long while later, while Sentinel was continuing his opening statement in this trial that everyone knew the outcome of at this point in time, that Megatron seemed to realize that he was being watched so intently. The grey-plated mech shifted where he stood, then turned his vermillion optics to look skyward at Ultra Magnus on his platform.

There was an intensity behind the red optics that sent a faint quiver down the Autobot Commander’s spinal strut. In the gaze he felt…

He wasn’t going to say it. He wasn’t going to think about it. Especially not in the middle of the opening statements for the trial. He couldn’t let himself lose composure like that. He couldn’t let himself show any emotion other than indifference towards Megatron.

“-at the end of this trial that shouldn’t be held in the first place, I think everyone, especially the High Councilors and the elected Magnus of Cybertron, will find the defendant known by the name of Megatron guilty of the charges of slaughter, crimes against the intergalactic community, and conspiring to murder the head of the Autobots.”

That got his attention. Ultra tapped the Hammer on the floor, prompting everyone to look at him. He cleared his vocalizer and corrected Sentinel, “I suppose the word did not reach you in time, Sentinel, but Megatron has stated that the Decepticon agent known as Shockwave acted alone. The charges of conspiracy to commit murder will be brought against Shockwave, and Shockwave only.”

The blue-plated Prime and the rest of the onlookers looked taken slightly aback, as if they were hoping that Ultra would crack one of his famously rare smiles and say that he was joking. He didn’t, however, gently staring them all down before his gaze settled on the blue and orange Prime.

A minutely uncomfortable silence befell them all for a moment before Sentinel awkwardly recanted. “Then, it’s my hope that this honored body will find Megatron guilty of the slaughter of untold Autobots, and crimes against the intergalactic community.”

Megatron hadn’t looked anywhere near Sentinel’s direction the entire time, Ultra noted. Out of the corner of his optics he saw the red optics darken a little further as the gaze stayed on him.

.-.-.

“Sure you’re alright goin’ alone? Nitro’s off-shift but she’ll be happy to come with me an’ go with you.”

“I will be fine, Jazz. He did nothing to me when I was there, and if it puts your spark and processor at ease, I will make sure that I will have a guard or two stationed nearby in case of anything.”

Jazz didn’t seem entirely convinced. A quiet clicking noise was picked up by Ultra’s audio receptors, and then he found himself looking directly into the cyberninja’s white-blue optics. “He can still throw you ‘round, sir.”

Ultra blinked, a little taken aback as it had been quite a while since he’d seen Jazz sans his visor. He gestured to the Magnus Hammer that he held in his other servo. “Jazz, you have seen what I am capable even without the use of the Hammer, and I have the Hammer with me as you can see. I will be fine.”

The cyberninja seemed to relent, realizing that he couldn’t change his mind. “Fine. But if you go offline there, I’m never gonna forgive myself, and when I go offline I’m houndin’ your spark in the Well.”

Smiling at Jazz, Ultra Magnus sent him on his way. “I wouldn’t put it past you to do that.”

Once the door to the personal shuttle had closed and he was seated in the captain’s chair, he felt the need to put up a visage leave him. Ultra sighed heavily and piloted the vehicle out of the ship bay. He set the autopilot to take him directly to Trypticon and sat back, watching the scenery of Iacon become a vast, empty land that stretched before him, peppered with small clusters of little homes here and there.

When the sky grew dark, he knew he was close to Kaon. Ultra hailed the head of the prison guards on her personal frequency. ::This is Ultra Magnus, requesting permission to land at Trypticon Prison::

Over the communication frequency, he heard a stunned pause. Then Cyclone’s voice came over the frequency, her voice slightly confused. ::Permission granted, sir::

Once the shuttle had landed, he stepped out of the transport, finding himself faceplate-to-faceplate with Cyclone and two other guards. They saluted him, which he returned. The femme’s expression was one of curiosity as she tried to peer around his thick frame, looking into the interior of the shuttle as she asked, “This is an unexpected visit, Ultra Magnus. Have any Elite Guardbots with you?”

“Not this time. I aim to keep this visit short and sweet.”

Cyclone nodded in understanding. “Megatron was returned to his holding cell about a cycle ago. I will send these two,” she gestured to the bots that were with her, “to escort you.”

Ultra pressed his lipplates into a thin line; it was something he wasn’t normally aware that he did, but the slightly wary expression that crossed Cyclone’s faceplates told him that he had. He cleared his vocalizer. “I will let them accompany me on the way down, but they will stay a hall separated from Megatron and I. I trust that Megatron won’t do anything to me.”

He saw apprehension in the femme’s visage. She then relented – one of the perks of being the Commander of the Autobots.

“Oh, and I’m aware that you have security feeds wired to Megatron’s cell-”

She cut him off, shaking her helm. “The feed was supposed to be repaired stellar cycles ago. We have yet to bring a technician out to fix it.”

“Oh.” Ultra found it an unexpected, but slightly welcome, surprise. “Then there are no records of what Megatron has been doing?”

Cyclone shook her helm again. “No. Guards are sent to check on him randomly.”

“Noted. You two, please,” Ultra nodded to the mech and femme that were at Cyclone’s sides, “come with me.”

.-.-.

The walk to the warlord’s cell felt a lot longer than he logically knew it was.

The sounds of his pedes hitting the floor with his rhythmic walk echoed, bouncing off the corridor walls. He held the Magnus Hammer close to his frame, clutched in both of his servos as he stared straight ahead at the door that led to Megatron’s cell.

With each step, he felt the ghost of a servo touching his faceplates. He tried not to give it any more thought, but found himself failing in that endeavor.

Inside the room was Megatron, the warlord hidden behind the thick glass pane that separated him from the rest of the world, the rest of the universe that he had wronged. Ultra was almost upset that Megatron didn’t react with so much as a glance upward when he entered.

Nonetheless, he kept his emotions off of his faceplates as much as he could – which, admittedly, wasn’t very much. He strode over to the cell and hit the button on the left side of the pane with the Magnus Hammer.

“I don’t know what your intentions were,” Ultra hissed through his dentae, curling his own servos around the bars of the cell that had taken the place of the glass pane only a few nanokliks before, the Magnus Hammer leading against the wall. “But I will not tolerate you trying to elicit a reaction out of me in such a public manner.”

Megatron looked up from the large metal slab called a berth, his red optics meeting his blue ones through the square openings of the gate. “I don’t think I know what you mean.”

It took all of Ultra Magnus’s self-control to not yell at the top of his intakes in frustration. He closed his optics, willed for Primus to grant him more self-control, and then reopened them, staring deep into the warlord’s optic sensors as he said, “Our previous reaction just before your trial commenced. And the trial, today. During the opening statements. I felt your gaze on me the entire time.”

“Everyone else, especially that joke of a Prime, was boring the circuits out of me,” Megatron droned quietly, getting to his pedes. “You’re possibly the more interesting of the bots I’ve met, aside from the Prime that defeated me in combat.”

“There it is again,” Ultra stated, staring harshly at Megatron. “You flatter me. Your servo caressing my faceplates, you telling me that I aged well, among other things… why did you have to do that?”

Megatron gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I am not facetious with my compliments. I rarely give them to my Decepticons. You, however, I feel have deserved a few.”

“Then why did you get into my helm just before your trial? Do you hope that I’ll recuse myself? Do you hope that I’ll overrule the High Council’s decision? If that is your hope, then it’s just as you said last time, no Autobot in their right state of processor could defend you from what you have done.”

Red optics blinked at him, and the Decepticon warlord seemed to get a little bit smaller right in front of him.

“I have no hope other than that you’ll acknowledge the long-festering flame that I have carried for you, Ultra Magnus.” Megatron in-vented deeply and then exvented, grasping the metal bars with one of his servos, one level above Ultra’s own servos. “I remember the first time that I saw you on the battlefield, all those millions of stellar cycles ago. You wielded the very same Hammer in your servos that you do now.”

Memories that far back were mostly hazy – but the recollection of his first battle under the title of Magnus was so clear that it might as well have taken place just the solar cycle before. He charged into battle, and the closest Decepticon to his vicinity happened to be the very warlord that had taken over the faction after staging a coup and overthrowing his predecessor. Ultra remembered swinging the Hammer at the Decepticon, roaring and yelling as he did so.

He remembered the cracking sound that the Hammer had made when it crashed into Megatron’s faceplates, sending the grey-armored mech flying a good distance across the battlefield. He remembered seeing the red optics glaring at him, hateful, before he roared and bolted over the distance, closing in on Megatron again as he swung the Hammer, fired up, charged with crackling energy beams as it did double the damage to the grey-armored mech.

“You irritated me with your vigor and your determination to annihilate me, which were traits that Powered Convoy did not possess. Over time, and with each successive confrontation in battle, I found myself further intrigued by you.” A faraway look came over the larger mech’s optics, memories that Ultra couldn’t and wouldn’t know of coming over him. Ultra moved his servos from the bars of the cell and took a step back, putting distance between them. “It was when you were taken off the battlefield that I realized there was a term for what I felt for you.”

His processor spun with the Decepticon’s words, struggling to make sense of them even though his spark seemed to know what it was.

“-ockwave harmed you, I was infuriated. But I held my silence and tried to understand his frame of mind when you happened upon him-”

“You sent Shockwave to infiltrate the Autobots. And that is the least of your crimes. You’ve yet to answer my question – _why_ have you acted like this towards me?”

Megatron’s red optics brightened slightly as he looked again at the Autobot Commander, measuring him. Ultra felt like he was being put on the spotlight again, and he wasn’t sure if he would have rather been in front of a crowd of thousands of Autobots, or have the only audience be this Primus-forsaken warlord.

“I have nothing left to lose.” The admission of defeat seemed to add years to the warlord’s visage. “I’ve lost a war, I have lost my army, and I do not know the status of the two mechs that were captured with me. I don’t know how many of my Decepticons still function. So, I will come out and say it – before I am sentenced to go offline, I would like to get to know you a little more than personally.”

Ultra didn’t quite comprehend what Megatron was saying. He blinked his optics, staring at the other mech. “Say that again.”

“This long-held flame I’ve held for you still burns brightly, Ultra. You have the power in your servos to say yes or no.”

A very long, very still, very quiet silence stretched out before them, lasting kliks that felt like solar cycles that then turned into stellar cycles. His processor reeled, his spark pulsed against its casing, his servos curled into fists at his sides before he opened them and raised them to curl around the bars of the gate that separated them.

“You want to interface with me. Is that it?”

A half-smile that wasn’t tinged with malicious intent formed on Megatron’s faceplates. He nodded.

A myriad of protests crossed Ultra’s processor as he took a deep in-vent, and then ex-vented. “And is that what you really, truly want?”

There was a sparkpulse of silence before Megatron broke it. “I would not have said anything if I didn’t truly want it.”

His processor was still full of protests and protocol, screaming at him even as he felt for the secret panel to the side of the button the wall. Once he found it, he flicked it open, pressing the button that was hidden behind.

The metal gate with violet energy sparking around the bars lifted. The glass pane didn’t deploy to take its place.


	5. Regrets Collect Like Old Friends

They stared at each other a few moments before Ultra closed the distance between them and reached up, bringing Megatron’s helm down against the protests of his processor that told him that what he was doing was wrong and against everything that he stood for.

The meeting of their lipplates was a spark that enveloped his entire body with flickering flame, and if the desperate expelling of air from Megatron’s frontal vents was any signal, the fire had spread to the Decepticon warlord as well. Ultra pulled back, took a moment of contemplation and stared directly into Megatron’s brightly illuminated optics.

“Are you certain that you want this, Megatron?”

Megatron’s vermillion orbs stared back at him. The silence was longer than Ultra Magnus was comfortable with. He removed his servos from the grey-plated mech’s frame and took a step back.

“I will say it again – I would not have said anything if I didn’t desire it.”

Before Ultra could react, Megatron crossed the space that separated them.

The grip that Megatron had on his helm was possessive, holding onto him as one would hold onto a lifeline. Ultra moaned licentiously as Megatron pulled him forward, their lipplates meshing together once more, kissing brutally. His servos held onto the Decepticon’s faceplates, his digits scratching the other mech, but Megatron didn’t seem to care as he continued to press the Magnus closer to his rapidly heating frame.

Ultra’s servos traveled down the Decepticon’s front until they reached the burning pelvic plating that hid the interface array. Growling into the bruising kiss, Ultra ordered, “Open.”

Megatron hissed and bit at his lower lipplate, and Ultra tasted energon. He pulled away from the liplock and focused his attention on the very erect spike that twitched under his touch. He stroked his digits up and down the length, looking back up to the Decepticon’s optics and seeing them dim. Now, there was little else in the universe that gave him a sense of power over watching the harbinger of death himself tilt his helm back and arch his hips into his pale servo.

The crimson biolights on the black and grey spike pulsed with every stroke of his digits, the erect appendage twitching after every pulse. Ultra tore his gaze from the Decepticon warlord’s blissed out faceplates to look at the spike, gripping it that much more firmly as he lowered his helm and wrapped his lips around the wet tip.

Megatron’s hips twitched, and Ultra felt large servos close around his helm before the sight in his visual field changed from that of the grey mech’s black hips to his red, dark optics.

“No,” Megatron shook his helm, growling deep in his chassis. He grabbed Ultra without warning and flipped him into his front, sending bits of pain into the Magnus’s frame as Ultra got up on his servos and knees. “Need more, need it now.”

It had been eons, but he remembered his hijinks and instances of indiscretion back in his Autobot Academy days, where kisses and frags with Elites long-gone and forgotten in memory were had in hidden corners of Fortress Maximus. This position felt so slightly familiar as he looked at Megatron over a large shoulder strut and presented himself to the larger mech, opening the cover that hid his valve.

There was unadulterated lust in those red eyes.

He lifted his aft higher into the air and parted his thighs, allowing for more space for the Decepticon to settle himself in. Ultra panted, trying to cool his systems as he felt the bulbous tip of Megatron’s spike nudge at the slick, wet folds of his valve. Their fluids, Megatron’s transfluid and his valve lubricant, mixed together and when the air met it, it sent a shiver through his frame.

“Mine, all mine,” Megatron hissed in his audio receptor as he ground his pelvic plating against Ultra’s aft, eliciting choked gasps from the Autobot Commander. Ultra felt a thick glossa on one of his antennae, moaning wantonly as Megatron continued, “I want to take you, over and over, fill you with my fluids until other bots can tell just by scent alone that you _belong_ to me.”

Ultra found the image of being filled with the Decepticon’s essence much more erotic than he really should have. He curled his digits into his palms and looked over his shoulder strut as much as he could at the other mech, feeling his faceplates heating and his optics flaring as he growled, “Then take me and _show_ me that you mean it.”

He saw the cautious look in the red optics, almost as if Megatron hadn’t expected to be taken up on his wish. Then the Decepticon’s lower lipplate curled, and he grabbed Ultra’s hips with strong, needy servos, and pushed his way deep into Ultra’s valve with no warning, no amount of gentleness. Ultra threw his helm back as he was rutted into, fragged so deeply that he was sure he’d feel the aches the next solar cycle and that his armor would be painted in different tones of scratchy grey.

Megatron’s growls grew in volume, sending pleasant vibrations through Ultra’s frame, but especially into his audio receptors. One of the warlord’s large black servos moved from the curve of Ultra’s hip and then Ultra felt Megatron caress his faceplates. Thick, dark digits hooked into his mouth quite suddenly, making Ultra moan as he sucked on them.

“I’ll show you more than that.” And then the hand with fingers that had been hooked into his mouth removed itself and shoved him faceplates first into the floor. All the Autobot Commander could do was turn his helm to the side and gasp with each thrust as he was pounded into, the tempo of the thrusts sending him scraping along the ground.

His vents were overworked as they tried to cool his frame to a more manageable level, his processor spun in a mix of pleasure, pain, and conscience. Without thinking, he rasped out two words: “Harder, _more!_ ”

Megatron was all too eager to take up the challenge, tightening his grip on the Magnus’s hips, denting the metal of the armor as he thrust harder, faster, deeper. A loud groan emanated from the warlord’s vocalizer, sending vibrations of pleasure up Ultra’s spinal strut.

Almost there. He was almost there, ready to ride the wave of overload as it came over him, but then he felt the thick spike leave his valve. He was about to complain and beg, but then he found himself being grabbed again and turned onto his back struts, shaken slightly as he looked into the feral red optics of the bigger, larger mech.

Stars exploded behind his optic covers as Megatron slid back in without hesitation. Ultra arched his back and grasped at the surface of the berth, wrapping his legs around Megatron’s thick waist as the grey-plated mech resumed his fast and hard tempo of thrusts, groaning loudly.

“I’m close,” Ultra managed to say, feeling the fire consume his entire body, from his processor to his leg struts.

Megatron responded by biting into one of his audio fins, pressing against Ultra once more, rolling his hips and grinding against the puffy valve lips and the Magnus’s anterior node before his vision whited-out. Ultra’s backstruts arched high, frame tensing, gasping for life as overload came over him. Distantly, he heard Megatron’s stifled groan.

Their vents blared, expelling hot air that had been pent up during the build to their shared overloads. Ultra tilted his helm back, his arms and legs going lax. A moment later a heavy weight collapsed on his frame.

Both mechs lay in the shared quiet, the only noise in the cell room the sound of their fans working to cool them down.

Reopening optics that he hadn’t realized he’d closed, Ultra sighed and looked up at the ceiling, wondering if it would be appropriate to look the warlord in the deep red pools he had for optics. His processor spun, thoughts racing, wondering how many laws and regulations he’d just broken and bypassed by a million miles.

“If my Decepticons learned of this, they wouldn’t be any more pleased than your Autobots would be.”

Ultra looked over the wide expanse of his chassis and saw Megatron’s face hovering somewhere close to his middle. He hadn’t noticed that the grey-armored mech had moved. Checking his internal chronometer, he was a bit taken aback to see that this entire encounter had taken all of thirteen kliks.

“I have more time but,” Ultra moved away from his position underneath Megatron and frowned at the evidence around his pelvic area, “I need to clean up. I didn’t…” he trailed off, certain that Megatron knew what he would have said.

_I didn’t mean to come here just for this._

The Lord of the Decepticons made a quiet noise that drew his attention again. A slightly wicked grin came over Megatron’s faceplates. Most that had ever seen the warlord’s visage would have been used to the sight, but this was a different kind of grin. Before Ultra had more time to wonder why this one was dissimilar, Megatron’s helm ducked between his thighs and a flat, wet something that Ultra later realized was a glossa swiped against the moist, swollen folds of his valve.

Ultra’s intakes hitched and he placed a servo on the back of the grey-armored mech’s helm, closing his optics so all of his senses could focus on the sensation of having his valve eaten out.

The first and last time that this had happened had been with a femme five-sixths his height and his same mass; he remembered the way she had done it – agile glossa and all ten digits spreading him open eagerly as if he were the most divine thing she’d tasted in ages.

But it was clear that she had been relatively inexperienced compared to the talent that the Decepticon warlord possessed, and Ultra found himself a little bit envious of all the bots that had been in his position before.

Megatron slipped his large, black servos under his aft and lifted him a short distance off the ground, allowing him that much more access to the Magnus. Ultra sighed and curled the digits that had been resting on Megatron’s helm into his palm, parting his thighs further so they gave Megatron more leeway.

Oh, that was wonderful. The warlord’s glossa flattened over the anterior node before he fixed his lipplates around it, making quick and soft suckling motions with his mouth that drove Ultra over the edge once more. He grasped the back of Megatron’s helm with both servos as if it were the only thing holding him to reality, arching his back and gasping as he rode the overload by grinding his array into the grey mech’s mouth.

Megatron growled, the vibrations absolutely divine, and Ultra felt sharp dentae scrape teasingly along his folds and his anterior node.

He could get used to this. He really, truly could if he let himself.

.-.-.

“Hmph. You realize that most of this information’s probably outdated, right?”

Red Alert brushed bits of space dust off of the datapads and prayed that they activated. They were indeed extremely old – definitely older than the last wave of protoformed Cybertronians, but _some_ of them had to still be useful.

“I know, and that’s why I brought you here to help me sort them out. Two medics with two different processors is better than one.”

On the other side of the storage room, she heard Ratchet make a noise. She hadn’t known him for very long, but she at least knew that that particular noise was one of concede. She kept the smile of satisfaction to herself and turned the datapad in her servos on, watching as it booted up at such a slow speed that would have activated two, possibly three modern datapads within the same timeframe.

“Mnemosurgery?” she heard Ratchet exclaim from the other end of the room. “I swore that was the stuff of legend.”

“It was made illegal around the time that Powered Convoy became Magnus.” Red remembered hearing the sighs of relief from her superiors at the time at the news of the practice being outlawed. “It was considered too barbaric to continue.”

“Keep forgettin’ you’re a lot older than I am. And the young bots tell me that _I’M_ the one with a servo in the scrapheap.”

“If you’re one servo in the scrapheap, I’m a servo and a half.”

“How do you stay out of it?”

“Oh, it’s easy,” Red couldn’t help the smile that crossed her faceplates. “I just keep throwing younglings in the scrapheap before it can get me.”

Ratchet made a snorting noise. “I’ll have to remember that one for Bumblebee and Bulkhead.”

Both medics worked in close proximity for a while in the quiet, activating ancient datapads and muttering to themselves as they tossed out the devices with the more heavily outdated information and stored the ones that would be kept and updated with current information in their respective subspaces.

“So why’d all these get put down here again?”

Red held a servo up and finished her call on the datapad, finding it only need a little bit of updating, and then stored it in her subspace. “Storage. We uploaded most of what we could into the Grid and into Fortress Maximus’s data vaults, but we had to hide these in an underground bunker if the Decepticons destroyed our abilities to pull up this medical information.”

“That explains the sets of Elite Guards we had to get through to get down here.”

“Exactly.”

“Was it you or Ultra Magnus that made that call?”

Grabbing two datapads that were broken beyond repair and another that was far too outdated to be of any use, she tossed them into a far corner of the room. “Neither. I wasn’t the head medic at Fortress Maximus at the time, so it was one of the superiors. Long offline, I’m assuming, if I took over his position. Never knew his designation.”

Ratchet grunted. She watched him pick up a datapad and online it before turning back to her own stack that she had to go through.

The screen on the second datapad had just brightened and was showing the activation screen when she heard the other medic make a small noise of surprise.

“What is it?”

“Datapad on sparklings.”

That got her attention. She glanced at the datapad in her servo and saw the subject of the text and the creation date – far too outdated as well – and tossed it away before weaving her way through towers of information to reach the mech. Red Alert held her servo out and snatched the datapad.

Indeed it was a datapad on sparklings. Very in-depth information on the process of creating sparklings, the process of a carrying cycle, emergence (that looked painful, she thought, sure that she had grimaced outwardly), and the care of a sparkling from emergence to their final frame upgrade.

“Hmm. I can see why we removed everyone’s ability to make sparklings and went for AllSparked protoforms instead. The amount of time and resources that go into them, Primus.”

“Mhmm. Haven’t seen those in a long while.”

Red offlined the datapad and dove into the pile that Ratchet had picked it up from. “Of course you wouldn’t have. The last ones were born actually just as Ultra ascended the title of Magnus. I believe the last one I saw was, well,” she had to pause to make sure she remembered correctly, going through her memories, “Cliffjumper himself.”

“Saw all of one when I was a medic, but it was pretty quick. Don’t remember much of it.”

“Now that I think of it,” Red Alert said, staring at the pile of datapads, “we didn’t upload any of this information into the data vaults. This should still be relevant, so,” she picked up an armful of them and stuffed them into her subspace, “let’s take all of these, shall we?”

Ratchet gave a gruff smile. “You read my processor.”

.-.-.

There was something natural about feeling the pulse of another bot’s spark against his.

He gave a quiet sigh of what felt like contentment and curled into Megatron’s broad chassis. The warlord’s field changed for a fraction of a moment, emanating surprise, before accepting it and stroking his large, black servos against the Magnus’s backstrut.

Plenty of times he’d laid with other bots when he had been a much younger mech, but this was the second or third time in his lifecycle that he’d merged. Ultra remembered the soothing feeling of having another bot next to him, and he realized how long it had been if he were taking such comfort in the presence of a Decepticon. The warlord of the Decepticons, specifically.

His chronometer pinged a warning at him – thirty-five kliks since he had entered Megatron’s cell, intending to interrogate the warlord and winding up giving him what he’d wanted.

The guards would come knocking soon if he didn’t depart. He prayed that this cell really was as soundproofed as he’d been told it was.

Ultra slowly moved his servos to get a grip on Megatron’s chestplates and lifted his upper half up, sighing. He avoided the bright red optics that looked his direction as he said, “I have to leave now. And I have to make sure I don’t look…” he trailed off.

Megatron nodded. He saw a dark shadow flicker across the grey-armored mech’s faceplates, and he wanted to ask what the purpose of it was, but he knew deep in his spark what it was.

Getting to his pedes, Ultra checked out what he was able to of his frame. The deepest of scratches were directly between his thighs, which were not often in public view. He swiped his digits over the scratches that weren’t as inconspicuous, measuring how deep they were. They didn’t seem to be very deep, and with the dim lighting of Trypticon Prison, if he kept to the side of or behind the guards he wouldn’t be asked anything.

Ultra stepped out of the cell and turned around, this time meeting Megatron’s optics as he grabbed the Magnus Hammer and closed the bars, but not the glass pane. He cleared his vocalizer.

“You said that your Decepticons would be as displeased as my Autobots if they learned of this.”

“They would be, yes,” Megatron gave a minute nod.

“So this… this will not get out to either of our factions. I gave you what you wanted,” the statement made Ultra’s tanks churn the slightest bit, “and that is that. We will resume the trial,” Ultra put the Magnus Hammer in front of him as if putting up yet another barrier between them, “and this stays between the both of us.”

“And I have accepted what my eventual fate will be.” A half-smirk crossed the warlord’s faceplates. “Stellar cycles from now I will be hailed as a martyr. Or that is the goal, I feel.”

After digesting what Megatron had said, Ultra narrowed his optics and then closed the glass pane over the bars without another word.

Of course he shouldn’t have expected a true about-face from a Decepticon. Of course Megatron, even in feigned acceptance of defeat, would fancy himself a martyr for the cause that had been the death of millions of innocents.

However, as he exited the cell and was escorted out of Trypticon and back onto his shuttle, Ultra found that he was the slightest bit let down by the statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the three weeks since the previous update, I've uprooted my entire life and moved elsewhere to a place that gives me more hope for the future. I apologize for the wait and hope that the next chapter can come much sooner <3


	6. I Howl When We're Apart

It seemed a lifetime ago that he’d exited Omega Supreme and was welcomed by crowds cheering his victory against the Decepticons.

Optimus could recall the energy in the air, the jubilation etched on everybot’s faceplates as he stood before the captured prisoners, Magnus Hammer in his servo and the AllSpark slung around his neck on a chain. He remembered smiling at everyone he passed who shouted gratitude at him.

The prospect of being in front of such a large crowd hadn’t fazed him during the ride from Earth to Cybertron, but he found that now it was extremely terrifying.

Grabbing a cube of energon from his personal storage, Optimus tossed his helm back and downed it.

“Toss your helm back like that and you’ll pull a cable, ol’ mech.”

Optimus started and stared at the figure that emerged from the hallway that led to the common room. He sighed and put the now-emptied cube of energon back into his subspace storage. “It’s close to the first cycle of morning, Sentinel. You’re usually in recharge right now, or so I thought.”

“I’m cross-examining you tomorrow, Optimus. You can imagine that I’m so nervous about it.”

The red-armored mech narrowed his optics and didn’t comment on that matter further – he instead cleared his vocalizer and got to his pedes, giving Sentinel a wide berth as he walked out of the room. He heard the blue and orange mech call something after him, but he didn’t exactly care to process it; he’d hear enough of Sentinel’s self-assuredness in the morning cycle.

Optimus briefly thought about contacting Ratchet and Arcee before he realized that they would be in recharge – for all the help they’d given him, he refused to disturb them like that.

Bulkhead and Bumblebee and Sari were probably… he actually didn’t know what they would have been doing. But he knew that as much as they could try (and he knew they would) they probably wouldn’t be able to entirely give him peace of processor.

If the bot were still functioning, he would have pinged Prowl. Though the cyberninja had been a little bit difficult to handle and get in line at times, he was the one closer to Optimus in age and was very patient, still and listening in contrast to Bumblebee who could never stay quiet, or Ratchet who grumbled and griped.

Optimus placed his servo on the security pad that led to his temporarily assigned quarters and waited the moment for the scan to register his frame. The light of the security pad switched hues from a dimmed crimson to a bright emerald, and the door slid open to let him in.

He’d been pulled aside by Alpha Trion earlier that cycle and told, with the usual little twinkle in the old mech’s optics, that there was no reason to worry about the cross examination – the High Council wouldn’t ask much of him except that he retell the actions of the Decepticons as he saw them on Earth. He could leave the stand and exit the chambers as he wished after.

Except that asking Optimus to do that had been quite a lot, as the young Prime discovered upon his earlier introspection. He wasn’t looking forward to seeing Megatron there, no matter how placated the Decepticon warlord might have been, and he was most definitely fearful of the crowds that would be there.

He tried his best to shunt that thought aside and get to recharge for the long night that lay ahead.

.-.-.

For the third solar cycle in a row, he felt physically and mentally discomfited.

Ultra closed his optics against the stars and the glow of Iacon’s lights, in-venting deeply to steady himself mentally and physically. For all he knew, it was simply the stress of the trial. He would have called Red Alert in, but she would have sighed when he counted off the list of symptoms he’d been feeling and confirmed that it was stress.

He wasn’t about to waste her time like that.

There were no further datapads that he needed to read, and he felt he was in need of a mental break from the subject of Megatron and the trial.

The trial that he knew the outcome of, as everyone else did.

Megatron’s death, he knew, would bring about closure to, if not all, almost all Autobots who had lost a loved one during the long war.

After that, he figured, would begin the trials for the remaining Decepticons that had had a servo in the upper ranks. Shockwave and Lugnut, having being captured alongside their leader, would be the first ones to head to the defendant’s podium to speak for themselves as they saw fit.

Though, Ultra figured, it was very likely that they would simply just proclaim to be martyrs for the Decepticon cause, as their lord had declared himself to be.

Megatron’s words came back to him – that he would go offline as a martyr for future generations.

Ultra grimaced. Exactly what it was that caused that sort of sensation in him was lost. He sighed and laid down on his berth, holding a datapad close as he turned it on. The backlight was so bright that he had to squint his optics against the glare and search for a way to lower the luminosity, but he was taken aback to see that it was already at its dimmest possible point.

He opted for holding the datapad a little further out from his frame, squinting his optics as he tried to adjust them to the bright glare.

The adjustment had yet to occur when he felt a churning sensation in his digestive tanks.

The energon he’d ingested earlier that he’d first turned his olfactory sensors up at had to have been bad after all, if the aroma was that unpleasant and strong and if his frame was on the track to completely rejecting it.

Ultra shut off the datapad, closing his optics tightly and trying to regulate the internal processes running in his frame. Activating a diagnostic check, he saw that there was nothing much out of the ordinary, except for the scan showing that his internal pressure was slightly elevated, which was to be expected.

He tried to think of anything calming – the view of the Sea of Rust from the hill he’d called home as a youngling, stacks of datapads arranged into neat piles and alphabetized by subject matter, cyberfoxes trotting through the wilderness.

There was a horrible noise coming from his tanks, followed by what felt like something rushing up his throat pipe. He slapped a servo over his mouth and, in the brief moment that followed, decided that the waste bin was an inconvenient place to purge if he had a drain in the washrack. He bolted off of his berth and into the washrack, throwing himself to his servos and knees and retching onto the floor near the drain.

His frame and helm hurt, and with each retch of the thick brown liquid he felt like his helm was about to remove itself from his shoulder struts. When the wave of nausea passed him over, Ultra sat back on his haunches, heaving until he calmed his systems to a tolerable level of sickness. Trails of the liquid stuck to his chin. He sighed and wiped it off with the back of his hand, curiously bringing it within view to inspect it.

It was a mistake to do that; just the split moment view of what he’d regurgitated brought back a second wave of nausea. His processor spun and his armor shook on his protoform as he kept vomiting, watching the swirl of brown fluid make its way down the drain.

When it passed him again, a few kliks later, he determinedly got to his pedes and turned on the showerhead, washing the remnants of his retching away and cleaning off his frame.

He hoped that that was the last of it – he didn’t have the time to be dealing with this, especially not in the midst of the most-watched trial in millennia.

The berth had never looked so inviting as he slid back in, putting the datapad in the drawer attached to his berthside table. Ultra curled into himself, arms wrapped around his middle, going into recharge as he willed his tanks to stop messing around.

It was stress. It had to be. It was stress over sentencing a mech to offline, no matter how much he deserved it.

If this continued even after the trial was done, he would go see Red Alert about it.

.-.-.

He and Sentinel were on the same side. Megatron had withdrawn his right to cross-examine him – something that Optimus was grateful for. No matter what happened, Sentinel would definitely make certain that Megatron was deserving of execution for his crimes.

So why did he feel so much anxiety unrelated to the subject of the large crowd that would be watching him?

Optimus drank the cube of energon he’d stored in his subspace a little too hurriedly and made a noise of surprise as some of the blue liquid trickled down his chin and onto his chassis.

“Ah, I see you still haven’t mastered the art of drinking energon, eh Optimus?”

Oh. Right. That was why.

Resisting the urge to tell Sentinel to shove the datapad in his servo up his aftpipe, Optimus wiped the spilled energon off of his chin and chassis, not bothering to give the other Prime a glance. “Don’t you have some rehearsing to do, Sentinel?”

Out of the corner of his optic he saw the other mech give a one-shouldered shrug. “I feel confident about the cross-examination. I’ll do my best to pay attention to your sensibilities, old pal.”

“Good. Well, at the very least no matter what you do and say, Megatron’s paying for what he’s done.”

It was then that Optimus saw something small and yellow accompanied by something even smaller and yellow that was flitting in the air, and for the first time ever he was relieved to hear Bumblebee and Sari shout in unison, “Boss bot!”

He also took a small amount of pleasure in seeing Sentinel visibly flinch when Sari came within spitting distance of him.

Doubly relieved that this meant there was another distraction from his interrogator, Optimus readily smiled at Sari when she landed on his shoulder strut.

“You nervous?” the technorganic asked him, peering through the optic holes of her full-facemask at him.

“It’s just going to be telling everyone what they already know,” Optimus sighed, turning his back to Sentinel. “So I’ll be fine.”

“But you didn’t say you aren’t nervous,” Bumblebee replied, smiling brightly. “So you _are_ nervous.”

Optimus knew better than to flatly refuse. He was anxious. Damn the yellow mech for always being able to sense his thoughts. He cleared his vocalizer. “I know the both of you, and Bulkhead, were interested in joining up with the Elite Guard. Did anything ever come of that?” he asked for the sake of a subject change.

He saw both young bots light up, and he knew then that the news was positive, and that he would struggle to get them to stop talking until the court was in session. Which, he had to remind himself, was exactly what he was looking for.

“We all got admitted!”

“When do you all start your basic training?”

“Well,” Sari made a swinging motion with her arms, “Bumblebee and Bulkhead are gonna be ahead of me since they were in the Elite Guard all those years ago. I start next week.”

“Decacycle,” Bumblebee corrected.

“Whatever, same thing.”

Out of the corner of his optics he saw Sentinel fuming at the lack of attention, and he was relieved to see the blue and orange plated mech stalk away to join up with Jazz and a newly-promoted femme whose designation he couldn’t remember at the moment.

He pitied those two bots. As much as he would have liked to have kept the peace, Sentinel was too arrogant for his own good, and Optimus quietly ached for the cycle that someone would put the other mech in his place.

But that was the furthest of his worries, he thought, as Megatron was brought in. Optimus tried to make himself small so he wouldn’t be seen by the Decepticon warlord, but the cool glance his way and the lock of red optics with his blue optics told him that he’d failed to be inconspicuous.

Optimus stood to his full height and stared the mech down, praying that this entire ordeal would be over with.

.-.-.

“Magnus, sir?”

Ultra was dimly aware of Botanica trying to get his attention in the back rooms of the court chambers. He stared ahead at a point on the wall, shutting out as much outside noise and stimulation as was possible, so it took the High Councilor another try for Ultra to come to and fully register that he was being spoken to. Shaking his helm, he closed his optics, looked in the direction of the voice, and reopened his optics to find himself faceplate-to-faceplate with the femme.

Her helm was tilted as she looked at him, an expression of what he perceived to be curiosity on her faceplates.

“Before you step out, the High Council would like to speak with you about something that Perceptor found to be a bit…”

The trailing off in her voice unnerved him slightly. He made a motion with his servo to signal that she should continue what she had been saying. She looked at him a little warily and then resumed with a sigh. “A bit worrisome.”

That surprised him, and he had to question himself and ask what he could have done that was so worrisome, a question he would have posited to Botanica were she not already strolling away. Ultra grabbed the Magnus Hammer that had been leaning against the wall and followed suit.

She arrived at an inconspicuous door set in a wall, tapping a code into the security pad that was adjacent to the entryway. He went through and saw Alpha Trion and Perceptor already waiting for him. The trio of mechs all nodded at each other. Ultra didn’t waste any time with formalities, clearing his vocalizer. “Botanica tells me that there’s a concern that was raised. So, pray tell,” he sighed heavily, “what concern is it?”

A heavy look was exchanged between the three High Councilors. Perceptor reached into his subspace, and Ultra did his very best to hide the look of surprise that he felt when the mech pulled out a very familiar-seeming datapad that he’d left on his office desk before heading to the court chambers. Following a few moments of quiet, Ultra stated the obvious in the flattest tone he could muster: “That’s the datapad I left behind in my desk drawer.”

“Yes. We did tell you that one of us would be by to make sure that you had read through all the documents on it,” Perceptor droned. 

Ultra closed his optics and reopened them. They had indeed told him. “So what is the concern?”

Alpha Trion cleared his own vocalizer and held a servo out toward Perceptor, a silent plea for the datapad. Perceptor acquiesced the unspoken request and gave the Senior High Councilor the datapad. “We expected that you would have signed the proper warrant to send Megatron to his execution upon the close of the trial, but,” Alpha Trion tapped the datapad a few times and then turned it around so the screen faced Ultra instead of himself, “you skipped it over.”

Ultra looked at the screen and sighed. He had seen it last night cycle, and the thought of putting his signature on the line that would seal Megatron’s fate had sent a sensation of nausea into his tanks. Taking the datapad and staring at it, he tried to use his digit to put his signature.

But he couldn’t.

“I… I can’t do it. I don’t know why but I cannot do it.”

His optics were not cast upwards so he could look into the faceplates of the trio of Councilors, but he knew by the silence that the three of them were very likely speaking over a private communication link.

Botanica was the first to speak after the period of silence. “Why not?”

Ultra looked up, searching his processor but finding nothing in there that he could say or that he could articulate well enough for the others to understand.

The femme must have seen the conflict through his optics; Botanica sighed and put a thin servo on one of Ultra’s upper arms. “The most senior of the High Councilors can sign it off in the event that the Magnus cannot, but it won’t look good if Alpha Trion does that. You have to do it, Ultra Magnus.”

“I cannot. I’m sorry. The thought of signing it is giving me a lot of pause.”

“Is there any particular reason why?” Alpha Trion asked. Ultra didn’t miss the hint of reproach in the senior mech’s vocal tone.

Ultra held the datapad in both servos, staring again at the line where a signature was supposed to go. He couldn’t help feeling like a youngling that was being admonished by bots much older and experienced than he – was this how those under his command felt when he was doling out criticisms and punishments?

“There’s no other way we can work around this, Ultra. Keeping Megatron online will cause an uproar of proportions we have yet to see in our life cycles,” Alpha Trion said quietly, the reproach in his voice gone. The Magnus had to wonder if Botanica had told him to watch his tone.

Perceptor’s monotone voice cut in. “We have a society to rebuild. A mech who has committed crimes against the galactic community cannot continue to partake if he doesn’t show any remorse for his actions.”

“We can’t let him live. I don’t know what it is that’s brought this on you, Ultra, but we can’t let him stay alive.”

They had a point. He knew this deep in his spark – but that didn’t mean that he was willing to accept it with his mind and spark.

The thought of it made his tanks twist and something bubble up into his throat. Keeping the bit of leftover nausea down as much as he could, Ultra took a deep in-vent and sighed off on the datapad. The moment he did so, his self-control waned until he had to run for the nearest waste receptacle and purge his tanks.

Then he had to stand straight and walk out of the private chambers, High Council following behind with worried expressions on their faceplates.

Ultra stepped into the light and relished the quiet that descended upon the assembled crowd. Blatantly avoiding looking at the grey-armored mech that stared up at him with vermillion optics, he tapped the staff of the Magnus Hammer onto the floor.

“This court is now in session.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further apologies for the short chapter, since life is throwing things at me. I'm trying to keep to a regular schedule, but sometimes our best laid plans don't work out so well :P
> 
> Next chapter is when the slag really hits the fan, so I hope you readers are looking forward to it.


	7. And I Feel I'm Heading Down

Servos shook as he twisted his frame around on his berth, gasping to cool his frame down enough that he could fall back to sleep. The endeavor was useless, however; anxiety permeated every micrometer of his body, rendering his ability to go to recharge completely inert.

Ultra made a noise that was a half-sigh, half-sob, and threw his thermal sheets off of his frame and stared up the ceiling. His spark swirled in its casing, his tanks called for another serving of energon to top off the cube that he had downed half a cycle prior to originally trying to go into recharge.

It had been yet another decacycle, and he hadn’t fared much better. The aches and pains had now reached his chassis, and the creeping tightness around his spark only served to make his normally calm and stoic demeanor dissipate. Ultra curled his servos around his chassis, then curling his frame into himself, trying to even his breathing.

It wasn’t helping immediately. He closed his optics and willed himself to recharge if only so he could get through the following solar cycle, when he would have to sentence a mech to death.

Curling into himself and throwing the sheet off of his frame seemed to do the trick, as when he next opened his optics, light was slowly creeping across the formerly dark sky. Ultra gave a heavy breath and sat up in berth, holding his helm in his servos. His processor felt soft and like it was vibrating and that it were about to pop out of his forehelm.

Seeing no other option, Ultra slowly laid back down on the berth.

Then his communication link pinged him. He answered with, “I know I have a lot of duties to tend to this cycle, I don’t need a reminder.”

Alpha Trion’s voice streamed through to his processor: “I’ve been told that you’ve been waking up much later than you normally do, so I took it upon myself to ping you. We expect you to report earlier to the court chambers than you did the other time.”

“I was on time for that one.”

“You were on time technically, but we had to delay the start of the court session by a quarter of a klik to prepare you.”

A terse quiet hung between both mechs. Ultra tried to sit up in berth but found himself hit with a wave of nausea and light-headedness and lay back down.

“Fine. Fine, I need to refuel, but I will be there no later than half a cycle, Trion.”

“Noted,” the Senior High Councilor said before he cut off the communication link.

.-.-.

His systems pinged warnings at him that completely overwhelmed his senses. His visual field blared a few notifications at him, and without sparing them a glance he shuffled them aside and focused his attention on Sentinel Prime. The mech was giving his closing statements after Megatron had turned down the opportunity to address the crowd gathered at his sentencing.

Ultra wished he had a cube of energon to sate his seemingly ravenous appetite, but he’d turned down the offer just before he’d stepped out of the shadows of the back chambers and into the spotlight.

Sentinel put emphasis on a word that startled everyone in the court chamber, including the Magnus himself. Ultra composed himself and tapped the staff of the Magnus Hammer on the floor, grabbing everyone’s attention.

“Sentinel,” he began tiredly, “though you’ve done a marvelous job at presenting the case for the side of the Autobot Commonwealth, there is no need to continue speaking during the time that the other High Councilors and the selected jurors are absent from this hall.”

For the first time in that trial, the Prime looked slightly ashamed to be where he was. Ultra briefly thought back to the one Prime still on a slab, waiting to come out of his stasis lock. Though Rodimus wasn’t the most experienced, he’d rather have listened to Rodimus make a case instead of Sentinel gloat.

The sound of the doors to the back chambers opened, and all sets of optics in the room moved to look at the three High Councilors and the three commonbots that had convened behind closed doors to decide the fate of Megatron.

A fate everyone knew; all that was needed was for it to be storied in the annals of history.

Ultra cleared his vocalizer a little shakily. “Has a decision been reached?”

Perceptor gave a short nod.

And that was the start of the intense cold sensation that coursed through his systems. Ultra gripped the staff of the Magnus Hammer a little bit harder than was necessary and nodded at the High Councilor. “If you will read the decision for all of us to hear.”

His vision slowly turned into a blur. His spark began hammering against its casing. Reaching his other arm out, he gripped it against the edge of the podium on his dais.

“We the jury-”

His visual field gradually devolved into a very dark blur.

“-find the defendant, the self-titled Lord of the Decepticons, Megatron, guilty of the multitude of charges brought against him, and sentence him to execution.”

There it was.

Ultra was aware of one last thing before his vision blacked out entirely, and that was his leg struts giving way.

.-.-.

The uproar was instantaneous as the mech on the highest of the dais slowly sank behind its cover. The Magnus Hammer tipped over sideways, the thud of the staff falling to the floor sounding out a mere moment later.

Red Alert leapt to her pedes a microklik before her audio receptors picked up the sound of Ultra Magnus’s frame hitting the floor. She made her way through the noisy crowd and up the steps that led to Ultra’s dais. Alpha Trion and Botanica were already there, kneeling next to the Magnus’s frame. The Senior High Councilor was supporting Ultra’s helm while Botanica raised her servo to her audio receptor.

“Keep him there, Trion,” Red Alert said as she hurriedly approached. Ultra’s frame was still vibrantly-colored, which was a relief to see; she would have been much more worried if his hues had become desaturated. Red knelt down on the Ultra’s other side and manually opened one of his optic covers.

“Ultra, can you hear me?” she asked as she produced a flashlight from her subspace and waved it in his optic sensor. He stirred minutely and weakly tried to yank his helm away from the intense light.

“He’s responsive.”

A gruff voice corrected Alpha Trion: “It’s his frame respondin’, not him-him.”

Red Alert welcomed the attention of another seasoned medic as Ratchet hurried up to where she was. The bot knelt on the other side, muttering something to Botanica as she stepped out of his way. He brought out a servo-held device and opened a part of the Magnus’s shoulder armor, and Red watched him attach it via wires to Ultra’s protoform. A few moments later, Ratchet grunted out, “His spark rate’s pretty low, but there’s an irregularity in the spark casin’. Also,” he pulled the device back, “he needs energon.”

Alpha Trion and Botanica exchanged slightly incredulous looks. “He refueled just before he arrived here,” Alpha Trion said. “How could he need energon?”

“Don’t know. Somethin’s up, but we’ll find it out when we get him to Fort Max.” Ratchet gave Red Alert a look.

She got to her pedes and commed First Aid.

::First Aid, Ultra Magnus is in stasis lock. Bring a hover berth, stat.::

::On it!::

Members of the Elite Guard were busy directing the onlookers to exits to better allot for medical treatment of their Magnus. The volume of the furor decreased as the chambers were emptied, and Red felt a lot better about her ability to concentrate and properly tend to Ultra.

First Aid came bursting through the front doors a little later, a hovering medical berth trailing behind him as he brought it up the steps.

“Let’s move him,” Red Alert said, nodding at Ratchet. He grunted and waved Alpha Trion and Botanica away, making sure they went and stood with Perceptor. Ratchet was the first to haul some of Ultra’s heft into his arms. Red Alert motioned for First Aid to also help and the two picked the Magnus of Cybertron up and slid him onto the hover berth.

“I want you to run ahead and start getting a room ready, First Aid. Get scanning tools and a drip of energon on a hook.”

She heard the sound of Ratchet clearing his vocalizer. “Get two of them on hooks. He ain’t a small bot.”

“On it!” First Aid said, turning on his heels and taking on his vehicular mode, speeding ahead.

An Elite Guardsbot rushed forward as First Aid left. “We have a transport ready.”

“Does it have the basic resuscitation tools?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get going.”

.-.-.

In the transport, Red Alert managed to get more reaction out of Ultra by administering low electrical shocks to his protoform. The Magnus made a small noise.

Ratchet grabbed a circular instrument and placed it over the center of Ultra’s chassis. text in bright, glowing blue script passed over the glass surface of the tool. “’His spark rate’s a little low, but not too low.” The disc-shape gave a beep and he pulled it away. “There’s a bit of layers missing from his spark chamber too.”

“Thank Primus, and that’s worrying” Red Alert muttered as she continued shining a light into Ultra’s faceplates. “If we get him on some fresh energon bags, he should come around quickly.”

“If he refueled as Alpha Trion said he did,” Ratchet said, “it must’ve been low-grade that passed through too quickly.”

Red looked up at Ratchet with a quirked optical ridge. “That still doesn’t account for the the missing layer around his spark chamber. And, all of the energon at Fortress Maximus is mid-grade. We don’t allow low-grade anywhere on the premises, just in case a cube of it winds up in the medical bay.”

“Nice to see that Fortress Maximus is as stuck-up as ever.”

“Shut up and let me have a look,” Red Alert motioned for the circular tool that Ratchet was holding onto. He eyed her, then the tool, and handed it over.

“What’re you gonna do with it?”

“I’m going to sync it with my personal holoscreen and see if I can find any other irregularities within his frame, aside from the stripped spark chamber,” Red said firmly as she pulled out her holoscreen from her subspace and set it next to the tool, tapping into both devices. “If he’s got a digestive tank issue, I’ll have to read up on how to fix it.”

“Gah, no need. I fixed a coupla tank issues for the bots when I was on Earth.”

A smirk crossed the femme’s faceplates as she passed the tool over Ultra’s frame. “Good, then maybe you can teach me a few things, and I can teach you how to repair spark chambers.”

Ratchet looked like he was about to snark back, but then the tool made a beeping noise when it had been passed over Ultra’s lower midsection. Red Alert gave it a strange look as she pulled it away and it ceased beeping. A moment later, she hovered it over the Magnus’s middle, and it beeped again.

“It’s got somethin’. Don’t know what.”

“It’s aggravated by something over his lower midsection. That’s not where the digestive tank is located.”

Ratchet scoffed. “I know that, Red. It can forward scans to other devices.”

Red Alert sighed and then tapped a button on the little disc to transfer the file of the current scan to her holoscreen. “I can’t think of anything that might be there. Maybe…” she faltered, and was grateful that Ratchet didn’t probe her any further.

The holoscreen brightened when the scan was done transferring. She laid the disc on the berth next to Ultra’s frame and looked at the figure of Ultra, with his internals shown in a dim grey against the bright white the rest of his frame.

The first thing that drew her attention was the bright speck of white in the center of the chamber directly below the digestive tanks.

“Ratchet,” Red Alert said slowly after a long pause, “tell me I’m not seeing things.”

“What are you seein’, Red?”

“There was a loss of a metal layer around the spark casing, and he went through a ration of energon at twice the rate that a normal bot does, but the scan wasn’t picking up any sort of digestive tank issues.”

“What are you sayin’?”

Red sighed in frustration and pointed to the scan of the Magnus’s internal systems that had been uploaded to the holoscreen. “What I’m saying is that he’s sparked.”

.-.-.

He heard hushed voices around him, tinged with a tone of urgency and something else he couldn’t exactly place at the moment. The lights were dim – far dimmer than he remembered the lights in the court chambers being. The voices weren’t those of the other High Councilors telling him that they had reached their verdict.

Sluggishly moving his helm, Ultra blinked his optics and adjusted his arms, but then found that he couldn’t move them far enough without causing a slight clinking noise.

The hushed voices ceased for a few nanokliks, which gave him enough time to try and get his bearings. To his surprise, he wasn’t in the chambers, but rather in a medical bay in the confines of Fortress Maximus.

The voices he had heard hadn’t been hushed, he realized. In the haze of his fugue state, he had been hearing Red Alert and Ratchet talking between themselves. A bright light was shone into his optics and he slammed his helm into a metallic surface.

“Ultra, stay still,” Red Alert’s voice said. “We don’t need you adding other ailments to the list of the ones you have already, so don’t slam your helm on the berth.”

Ultra blanched and reopened optics that he hadn’t been aware of closing. Finding his voice, he groaned, “What happened?”

“You passed out right as Perceptor was readin’ the verdict.”

The memory of the words came back to him – words that had doomed Megatron to the depths of the Pit. He squinted his optics against the light that Ratchet was shining in his face. “I’m not going to see the end of this, am I?”

“Of what?”

Ultra gave a short, barked laugh. “I fell in front of hundreds of Autobots, and in front of thousands more that were watching the process of the trial through the media. They are going to have a field cycle with the story of the Magnus fainting at a trial he presided over.”

Ratchet and Red Alert shared a look between themselves that sent a sensation of concern through Ultra’s neural net. He looked sternly at the both of them. “What is it?”

“We have some more problems to tend to, Ultra,” Red Alert said after she cleared her vocalizer. “Concerning you, personally.”

Ultra felt his spark jolt a little bit. He stared at her and titled his helm down a minute degree, a sign for her to continue talking.

“The seal in the gestation tank wasn’t repaired when we let you leave the medical bay. That was a serious oversight in our judgement,” Red Alert admitted, and Ultra could tell that she was unsure whether she should be looking down at the floor apologetically, or continuing to look at him. “And we are sorry.”

“Red,” Ultra was muddled by what the medic was saying, and he let it show on his faceplates, “why are you telling me this?”

A confused expression crossed her faceplates. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“That you’re sparked?”

Ultra blinked his optics at the medic. His spark stopped pulsing for a moment as his processor struggled to comprehend what he had just heard. Slowly sitting up, he faced both of the medics and paused before replying, “I can’t be sparked.”

“The scans and your symptoms say otherwise,” Ratchet groused, crossing his arms over his chassis.

He tried to wrap his processor around those words. He shook his helm. “How?”

“By fraggin’ or by immaculate conception, take your pick,” Ratchet replied.

“No, I mean,” Ultra tried to parse himself in much clearer words than one, “how did this happen?” He turned to look at Red Alert with his optics widened and frantic. “Don’t you remember? We were all under orders by Powered Convoy to get sterilized. I was third in line.”

“I remember,” Red Alert said slowly, nodding. “And I remember you coming every so often to make sure that it was still intact. But,” she walked away briefly and came back with a wide holoscreen that she set up next to his berth and activated it, “this was your gestation chamber blocking mechanism at your scan before we released you from the medical bay after Shockwave attacked you.”

Ultra watched Red Alert pull up the results of a scan on the large holoscreen. Two digits pinched in and then pulled apart, zooming in on the small space between his spark chamber and the uppermost portion of his gestation tank. She circled a digit around the stopper, a solid block colored white against the greys and blacks of his internal systems.

“It’s invisible to a cursory glance but it was cracked.” Red Alert traced her pointing digit down an incredibly thin grey line that had formed from the top to the bottom. “We compared it to a scan you had a stellar cycle ago, before Shockwave assaulted you, and the break,” the femme pulled up another scan and zoomed in on it, “wasn’t there.”

“We’re thinkin’ it was cracked in Shockwave’s attack,” Ratchet sighed. “Mech about eviscerated ya.”

“Frankly we’d be more surprised if the stopper _hadn’t_ been damaged.”

Ultra looked between the two scans, trying to convince himself that there had to be some sort of a mistake, trying to convince his optics to see the same thin line in the composition of the blocker in the old scan compared to the recent one.

But there was no mistake to be seen.

“And this,” Red Alert interrupted his thoughts, pulling his attention to her as she reached into a small container that had been set on the surface of the berthside table and pulled something out, “was the stopper we removed just before we brought you out of stasis lock.”

She reached her closed servo out to him, and he got the message to open his palm to get whatever it was she held.

The stopper that he’d last seen eons ago, when Powered Convoy had ordered all serving Elites to get them inserted, was broken not into just two but _three_ pieces. All three parts fell into his servo and he brought it to optic level for a closer look.

His body remembered faint aches from a warlord’s frame that moved roughly against his.

Ultra closed his optics, and then his digit around the broken stopper, feeling it crack even more in his palm. “How old is it?” he grit out.

“A decacycle and a half at the oldest, from what we can tell,” Ratchet replied.

Of course. He knew that already, knew there was absolutely no other alternative in this frag-up of unholy proportions. Reopening his optics, he dropped the pieces of the stopper next to him on the berth and stared down at his legs, laid against the berth’s flat surface.

“We’ll need time to go through the texts, but if you consider a termination-”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me,” Ultra raised his servo, a motion for both of them to stop. “I don’t know what I’m going to do at the moment.”

“So you don’t want a termination then?”

_“I don’t know.”_

His processor spun with the words still fresh in memory, telling him that he was sparked. It was an impossibility – the stopper next to him on the berth was supposed to keep such a thing from happening, and no sparklings had been born in so long that the memory of sparklings seemed to have faded from the collective consciousness of Cybertron.

He was still the Magnus. He had so much on his processor, so many duties and tasks that needed to be fulfilled. If he was being so affected by the state of his frame, the newly revealed carrying cycle, how would he continue?

“Ultra,” Ratchet’s voice broke through his reverie, “who’s the other bot?”

His frame’s response was faster than his processor’s ability to comprehend. Ultra raised his helm and looked at the shorter and stouter medic who had his servos to his hips. When the words registered in his processor, he replied, “What do you mean by that?”

Ratchet sighed. “Who’s the sire?”

Ultra curled his servos into fists. “I’m not going to tell you who the other co-creator is,” he grit out, feeling his optics flare heatedly as he stared down Ratchet.

The cantankerous medic wasn’t fazed as he crossed his arms and held his ground. “We’re gonna need a designation.”

“Ultra,” Red Alert said in the gentlest voice he heard her use outside of her speaking to younglings, and he turned to look at her, “we need to know. If you decide to keep the sparkling, we’re going to need a genetic profile of the sire to know what to expect. A sparkling is a mix of you and the sire. We know your history. We don’t know the sire’s.”

The Magnus stared, and inside his spark he felt the hardness slowly break and give way. He looked away from the femme, looked at the mech, and then stared down.

“One of the instances that I went to visit Megatron in Trypticon,” Ultra began with a very slow sigh that he dragged out over the course of a few nanokliks, “he told me that his final wish was to lay with me. I asked him if it were his actual, final wish, and when he confirmed, I relented.”

A stunned quiet descended on them. Ultra swore that he heard the inhalation rates of both medics spike. Part of him half expected their processors to completely fritz and for them to fall to the floor in stasis lock.

“Megatron,” Red Alert managed to say slowly, breaking the silence, “is the other creator of your sparkling?”

He nodded once in affirmation and parroted her words. “Megatron is the other creator of the sparkling.”

Quiet. The silence echoed in his audio receptors. He closed his optics. “So now you know the truth.”

Both medics continued to hold their silence.

Sick of the deafening silence, Ultra reopened his optics and looked back at them. “I would appreciate a few words being spoken, whether I’m being told that I fragged up or…”

“Nah, you fragged up, Ultra,” Ratchet groused.

Ultra couldn’t do anything but nod in agreement.

“I’m a little more shocked that you were able to conceive in the first place, Ultra,” Red Alert said as she looked down at a datapad that Ultra had no idea where she’d pulled it from. “You and Megatron of all mechs. The older a bot, the much more difficult it becomes to naturally conceive a sparkling.”

Ultra looked at the datapad and narrowed his optics. “Where are you reading that from?

“This thing,” Ratchet said as he tried to yank the datapad from Red Alert’s servos and failed, “has almost everything about sparklin’s that we know about.”

“We have to go and dig through the databanks for anything pertaining to sparklings and the raising and care for them. It’s been so long…” Red Alert trailed off and handed the datapad off to Ratchet. “We have to know something from you soon so we, and First Aid, can learn how to care for a carrier and then for a sparkling. It’s going to be a new learning experience.”

“If you stick with the sparklin’,” Ratchet asked, narrowing his optics, “are ya gonna stick with bein’ a Magnus?”

Ultra looked both medics in their optics, and then down at his legs.

He didn’t have an answer.


	8. Now I Am Under All

_The sound of his footfalls echoed in his audio receptors as he made his way to Powered Convoy’s office._

_Fortress Maximus’s hallways were a stark contrast to one another during the day and night cycles. Ultra Prime had expected a lot more guards and other Elite Guards traipsing along the corridors with him, but he presumed it was far too late in the night cycle for others to be up and about._

_It begged the question – just_ why _had Powered Convoy contacted him so far into a recharging cycle and asked for him to report to his office. Ultra had asked what the matter pertained to, but Powered Convoy had only given him a sullen glance before stating that he would rather have discussed the subject faceplate to faceplate._

_Finally, Ultra came across a single guard stationed right outside of the elected Magnus’s living chambers and office suite. The guard, whom he recognized as being his old drilling instructor from his recruit days, took the cy-gar out from between his dentae. “Purpose bein’ here, Ultra Prime?”_

_“Powered Convoy commed me and requested that I come to his office, Kup Major.”_

_Kup gave him a half-grin and stuck the cy-gar back in his mouth. “Passed the test, kiddo.” When Ultra gave him a curious look, Kup continued, “He’d told me to let ya in before, but I gotta ask what everybot’s business comin’ here is.”_

_“Noted, sir.”_

_“Hah, I should be the one callin’ ya sir. Go in.” Kup stepped aside and waved Ultra through the front doors._

_Ultra had never been inside the Magnus’s private quarters. He supposed he had expected them to be a little more opulent than the private rooms each Prime got assigned to, that every Major and Minor had to pair up and share with one of their own rank, and definitely better than the barracks that the new recruits had to share._

_The hallway looked like any other hallway in Fortress Maximus, if a little better lit. There were a few doors to choose from. Just as Ultra was going to knock on the first one, the second door to his right opened up and a pair of tired blue optics peered out from the doorway._

_“That door’s my private washracks.”_

_“Oh.” Not knowing how further to react to his faux pas, Ultra turned and headed right for the Magnus, stepping into a very bare room. The only things he saw were a large table and seat, and opposite where they both stood was a large window looking over the lights of the small city of Iacon._

_“Can I interest you in an energon cube?” Ultra looked away from the stars in the window and saw his mentor opening a safe that was very well hidden in the wall behind his desk. “I have a new shipment coming in the morning cycle, so don’t worry about taking what you want.”_

_“A cube would be nice, thank you,” said Ultra as he nodded and accepted the cube that was given to him._

_Powered Convoy looked… haunted, for lack of a better word, the Prime thought to himself as his wary blue optics watched the Magnus of Cybertron putter around his office, murmuring things to himself more than to him._

_After a few moments of watching the older bot organize articles on and around his desk, Ultra decided not to waste time. Taking a sip of the energon in the cube, he cleared his vocalizer. “What was the reason for asking me to come here?”_

_“Put that there. Does that look any better to you, Ultra?”_

_Ultra looked at the new placement of the desk and gave a vague nod before repeating his question. “Why was I summoned here?”_

_The haunted look came over Powered Convoy’s faceplates again. The Magnus grabbed his own cube of energon from the storage unit in the wall and trod his way over to Ultra. The young Prime steeled himself for whatever could come._

_“We lost a great many bots a solar cycle ago during the skirmish on Garo.”_

_That was one battle he hadn’t been present for – Ultra would have been, had he not switched duties with Big Bang. He nodded and sighed. “Big Bang did tell me, though I wasn’t given any numbers.”_

_“We lost thirteen Autobots, eleven of them in the skirmish.”_

_Ultra winced. It was a small number compared to some of the ones he’d heard before, but the loss of any Autobot was a win for the Decepticons. “That… is troublesome.” Then Ultra realized the disparity between the numbers he’d been given. He tilted his helm at Powered Convoy. “You gave me different…” he trailed off, feeling that the Magnus would have known what he was referring to._

_The Magnus sighed. “Following the events of yester-solar cycle, I drew a connection that the medics have semi-confirmed,” Powered Convoy said gravely, turning away from Ultra. The young Prime took two steps forward to bring him to the same distance from the office window at the same time that Powered Convoy took a deep in-vent and continued, “Very soon after Breaker Minor went offline in the battlefield, Scalpel received the sparkmate and the very young sparkling of both of them into emergency treatment.”_

_Ultra furrowed his optic ridges together. “Are they okay?”_

_Powered Convoy sighed. “No. They went offline, and in doing so they brought the official death total for the skirmish from eleven to thirteen. The sparkling was unable to handle the intense stress to his spark over his creator going offline. In turn, when the sparkling offlined, his carrier took his life because he couldn’t withstand the pain of losing his offspring.”_

_“I can imagine,” Ultra murmured, though the Prime really couldn’t empathize. Memories of neglect in his younglinghood and watching his apathetic carrier and sire argue over why they’d had him in the first place. He cleared his vocalizer. “What was the connection that you drew?”_

_The Magnus’s faceplates dawned with something akin to an epiphany, as if he’d rediscovered the connection._

_“I had the medics pull up the causes of deaths for the sparkmates and newsparks of active duty Elites that deactivated within a solar cycle of the Elite’s deactivation.” Powered Convoy in-vented heavily. “We couldn’t believe our optics and that no one else had drawn the connection before.” He released the air he’d taken in. “Each creator Elite Guardsbot that had gone offline took their sparkling, and in some cases their sparkmate, with them.”_

_Optics widening, Ultra tilted his helm a very minute fraction. “Are you certain about this?”_

_“We are, Ultra Prime.”_

_“Is this information going to be made public?”_

_“Amongst the active duty Elite Guards, yes.” Powered Convoy retrieved a datapad from his subspace and handed it to Ultra. “I’ve decided… and I know I will be seen as the enemy of the common bot after this and that history will judge me, but I can’t in all due conscience allow active duty Elite Guards to continue procreating when if one dies, another one, with the possibility of a third, will pass into the Well.”_

_Raking his optics over the information on the first data table that greeted him, Ultra gave the Magnus a confused (and slightly indignant, if he were to admit it) look. “How will we continue replenishing our numbers, Powered Convoy? A sparkling born to an Elite is still an Autobot, and the more numbers we gather amongst ourselves, the better our chances at defeating the Decepticons.”_

_Powered Convoy stroked his chin with two of his digits. “The Decepticons have not had any instances of procreation in thousands of stellar cycles, and they still hold their own against us. And, you forget,” he looked at the floor by the window, a small grin coming across his faceplates, “we have the AllSpark.”_

_Ultra drew his lipplates into a thin line and said nothing more on the matter._

_“At this rate, Ultra,” Powered Convoy said, breaking the terse silence that had proceeded it, “the deaths of sparklings and their other creator will begin to outnumber actual casualties from the battlefield by the next stellar cycle.”_

_Ultra looked again at the datapad he’d been handed and flipped to the next chart of data, his optics squinting as he made sense of the numbers. Powered Convoy was right – the graphs showed a sharp increase in Autobot fatalities if the average number of sparklings born to active-duty Autobots continued._

_“I’m sending out the order in the morning cycle. I’m expecting a lot of backlash. I’m also expecting that you and your fellow Primes, Big Bang and Override, will be the first ones in line to show the Majors, Minors, and the rest of the Elite recruits that it is an order to be obeyed.”_

_Ultra shut the datapad off and placed it on the surface of Powered Convoy’s desk. “How long will the procedure last?”_

_“Not long. A few kliks at most. They just put you under, open your plating, and insert the blocker between your gestation tank and your spark chamber.”_

_The Prime tried to keep the look of reproach off his faceplates, but he failed as he replied, “How do you know?”_

_Powered Convoy gave him a half-smile. “I’ve already gotten mine in. Nothing quite like setting an example for the masses.”_

_Ultra stared at the Magnus a moment, then gave a short nod._

_He didn’t entirely agree with the order – but he didn’t see a way around it, nor did he feel he was in a position to argue._

.-.-.

The steady and low beeping of the spark monitor was his only company for the night cycle. He’d requested that the covers fastened over the window of his private room be loosened and drawn back, so he could see the light of the stars in the sky. Red Alert, thankfully, had acquiesced his request.

Ultra had his helm turned toward the window and counted the pinpricks of light in the dark, trying to pass time.

Unfortunately, the stars weren’t shining so brightly, so only about a quarter of a cycle later he had already counted the stars he could see outside. He moved his helm so he stared at the ceiling instead and began counting the tile that comprised it.

He wouldn’t be able to get to recharge as easily as he would have liked – he was a side sleeper, but with needles in his arms feeding energon to his frame and injecting metals and nutritives to his systems to regain the lost layer of metal around his spark casing, he couldn’t exactly turn to his side. Instead, he was stuck here on his back, lamenting his life and the choices that he’d made that had brought him to this point in time.

Sparked.

By a mech who was supposed to die in a decacycle’s time.

By a mech that had been his worst adversary during the course of the war.

By a mech that was the sworn enemy of just about every single Autobot that existed, a mech that had killed loved ones without a semblance of remorse.

Here he was, sparked by Megatron, carrying Megatron’s offspring. It was his and Megatron’s offspring that would be the first sparkling born on Cybertron in the millions of stellar cycles that had passed since the last wave of non-AllSpark younglings had toddled about the planet.

Would _possibly_ be, he reminded himself. His decision had yet to be made. In the aftermath of war, he wasn’t sure that he could allow the sparkling to exist in the first place.

If he were to carry the sparkling to term, birth and raise it, he would have to do it on his own accord. There would be no chance that Megatron would be allowed to live, even if he were the other creator of Cybertron’s first sparkling.

And if he were to have the bitlet…

Memories of his chat with Powered Convoy came to the forefront of his processor. The numbers on the datapad hit him in his spark and mind in a way they hadn’t previously done so.

Then again, before this point, he hadn’t been carrying a sparkling.

Red Alert and Ratchet had told him that the newspark was so young that there would be no way he could feel them, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try. Ultra closed his optics and focused his mental and physical energy on trying to get a feel for the bitlet. After a bit of straining, he believed he felt something. He wasn’t entirely sure what, but he was sure something was there.

There was no way he would allow the sparkling to be brought into the universe if there was a chance that they would offline so soon after their birth.

But that’s what it was. A chance.

The numbers on that datapad turned into a blur. He would have to ask to see it again, or information pertaining to it.

Briefly he considered asking if there was any possible way that Megatron’s sentence could be overthrown, or perhaps have the sentence commuted so Megatron could spend the rest of his life cycle in prison. Then he considered the ramifications that would follow that question; he was already facing an inquiry and lots of scrutiny for his actions that had resulted in his carrying a bitlet.

There was no possible route to take that would involve Megatron keeping his spark pulsing. He knew that if Megatron didn’t die by execution, the furor that would spring amongst the Autobots would result in mob justice, and they would kill Megatron themselves.

Ultra closed his optics and sighed, moving his free servo to cover his lower middle. Imagining the sparkling forming in there, with no awareness of anything else other than its own fledging existence, stirred something in his spark.

How strong would the bond be between the bitlet he carried and Megatron, he wondered. He had no intention of bonding with the Decepticon – doing so would be a death sentence in both the literal and figurative sense. Ultra could recall how the bondmates of deceased Elite Guardbots, if they didn’t take their lives after their loved one went offline, lost all semblance of sanity. It was far worse if they had a sparkling. The worst cases were the ones that were the carrier – he couldn’t imagine it.

More truthfully, he didn’t _want_ to imagine it.

The bond, Red Alert had explained as well as she could, wasn’t very strong between himself and the bitlet at this point in time. The little spark was still so new and so underdeveloped that, should he decide for a termination in the early stages, all he would feel would be a faint pinch in the core of his spark.

But the more he thought about it, the more he felt – no, _knew_ – that it would be more painful than just a pinch.

A sparkling. He’d never thought much about them outside of his solar cycles spent as a Prime, fielding questions and complaints from his underlings about why they should get sterilized. The thought of carrying and raising his own sparkling was something new, something foreign that he could hardly wrap his processor around.

For now, it was something known only to three bots, possibly four if Red Alert and Ratchet had decided to let First Aid in on the secret.

Ultra sighed in frustration and looked out the window at the stars once more.

Somehow, he knew that his old mentor was in the Well, laughing at the irony of the entire situation.

.-.-.

The next thing in the Magnus knew, Red Alert was taking readings from the machines and the stars were gone from the window.

He sighed and turned his helm to the other side, looking at the femme with her serious, concentrated expression on her faceplates.

“How did you recharge?” she asked without looking up.

Ultra blinked at her and said nothing. She hummed to herself. “That bad, then. Your spark activity was through the ceiling, according to this,” she said, tapping on the screen of the spark monitor. “I’ve yet to see a bot that has such intense spark pulses and also has a good recharge.”

“Hmm,” Ultra found himself saying, finding that he couldn’t really think of anything to respond with. He simply watched the medic as she noted the readings from the machine onto a datapad. After a few kliks of silence between the both of them, she set the datapad on the berthside table and finally looked at him.

“So did you decide?”

“Decide what?”

She didn’t look impressed. “The sparkling. Or are you a bolt loose and you’ve forgot why you’re here in the first place?”

“I know why I’m here in the first place, Red,” Ultra said tiredly. He exhaled and turned his optics to the ceiling. Coming to his decision, he replied, “I want to keep the sparkling.”

There was a slight scraping noise on the floor, and he had become familiar with it enough over the stellar cycles that he knew it was Red Alert pulling a seat up to his berthside.

“I feel like there’s a “but” in that sentence, Ultra.”

He didn’t know where exactly to begin, so he decided to begin at the start.

“When we were told to get the blockers inserted, Powered Convoy told me that the reason behind it was for deaths en masse to cease, because sparklings and in some cases, the bondmate, would pass into the Well of AllSparks soon after their other creator deactivated. I don’t want that to happen to myself, and least of all to my sparkling. What I am saying is,” he turned his gaze to the medic, “as long as the sparkling has a chance at surviving with only one active creator, I will do what I have to do to keep them.”

Red stared at him, and then Ultra was overcome with a sensation that he’d said the wrong thing. Perhaps the medic had been expecting that he would have asked for a termination.

No matter. It was going to be his decision.

“I would have been a little bit disappointed if you had said otherwise, Ultra.”

The Magnus blinked his optics at her. She smiled and then turned away, grabbing other instruments from the cabinets around the room and what looked like a spare datapad from a stash of many. “I know that despite the aura you have to put up as the Magnus of Cybertron, you’re a soft-spark with younger bots. And this sparkling is coming from you.” She moved back over to him, putting a servo on the center of his chassis, making him lie back down – he hadn’t been aware that he’d sat up in his berth.

Ultra looked at her as she used a scanning wand over his lower middle. “What are you doing there?” he asked, curious.

Her optic ridges furrowed as she concentrated on the examination. “I’m getting a definite estimation about the age of the newspark.” She looked up at him again. “Ratchet and I will need to give you an estimate about how long it will take for the sparkling to emerge, and we can’t do something so precise until we get the age.”

Nodding, Ultra looked up at the ceiling again.

“What are you thinking of?”

A half-grin came over his faceplates after a moment of thought. “I’m going to be in a lot of trouble for making this decision, aren’t I?”

After another moment of quiet, Ultra shifted his glance to the medic again. Both veterans of the war shared a look before they broke out into laughter.


	9. We've Opened the Door

“Of all the things that I expected from this convening, I didn’t expect it to be about… anything even remotely close to this.”

Ultra Magnus kept his gaze on the Senior High Councilor, watching a myriad of emotions pass over Alpha Trion’s faceplates. The most prominent one, he noted, was the look of absolute betrayal, an emotion that he noticed was also present on Botanica’s faceplates. Perceptor, as always, kept an indifferent demeanor about him; it was always impossible to tell what Perceptor felt, if he could fee.

Botanica spoke next. “Do you realize how this is going to affect us all, Ultra? When you frag up, you really frag up.”

The Magnus turned his optics to look critically at the femme. “I’m aware. However, I believe I’ll be shouldering the majority, if not all, of the effects that this will have.”

“How do you believe that?”

“For one, I am the one carrying. Second, I am the one that will be caring for this bitlet, and no one else. And lastly, I am the one that will have to know what I will have to do regarding my position as Magnus.”

“What do you have to decide regarding your position?” Alpha Trion asked critically.

Ultra pursed his lipplates, debating whether or not he should have said anything in the first place. He shook his helm. “It is personal.”

“There is nothing else that can be more personal than you revealing that you are sparked by the leader of the Decepticons,” Perceptor stated flatly.

Though he hated to admit it, Ultra had to agree with the scientist bot. “How long I will be able to keep my position as Magnus while also caring for a sparkling,” he finally admitted.

Silence followed his admission, which was soon broken by the sound of the Senior High Councilor clearing his vocalizer. “An inquiry will be launched, headed by Cliffjumper. We would normally have had Longarm Prime at the forefront of it but…,” Alpha Trion trailed off, and Ultra didn’t miss the twisting of the elder Councilor’s lipplates. “Nevermind that then.” Trion shook his helm. “We’ll be monitoring your activities until the inquiry is over, to ensure that you don’t falsely corroborate your story with Megatron.”

“There will be no need for the corroboration, as I believe he and I will have the same view of the entire event that resulted in this.”

“That will be for Cliffjumper to decide.” Alpha Trion didn’t bother to hide his terse tone of voice as he stared harshly at the Autobot Magnus. “You should expect him in your office sometime this solar cycle to not only interrogate you, but to take your statement that will be released to the public at large regarding your state.”

Setting his lipplates in a straight line to denote his own terseness, Ultra replied, “I trust that my statement will be edited before it is released.”

Perceptor nodded in place of either Botanica or Alpha Trion.

“Are there any other questions or concerns that need to be aired?” Ultra asked. He could see on the two more emotional Councilors’ faceplates that they definitely had things to say, but they were holding back. All three shook their helms.

“If that is all that must be addressed,” Ultra lightly tapped the staff of the Magnus Hammer, “that is the end of my business, and I call this meeting to a close.”

.-.-.

Cliffjumper was taking his sweet time.

Sighing, Ultra organized the area on top of his desk to keep himself busy until the little red Autobot could come in and interrogate him. Truthfully, he wasn’t looking forward to it; Cliffjumper had the uncanny ability to get whomever he interrogated to be a little more than just forthcoming with information.

He wondered how an Autobot that small could be so vicious.

A pile of datapads on the desk called his attention. More specifically, the datapad a few pads under the top of the pile that was just slightly smaller than the rest. He remembered what it was. Ultra grabbed the small datapad that had been handed to him by Red upon his discharge from the medical ward. He hadn’t given it a glance since the prior solar cycle, storing it instead in his subspace and depositing it in his desk pile.

He activated the pad, and immediately knew why Red Alert had given him a completely uncharacteristic smile. On the screen was a screen capture of the bitlet’s spark. It was a bright, brilliant shine, glowing, a sign that it was very strong. Running the tips of his digits over the screen, he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his faceplates.

Aside from the thought of how the news would go over once it was revealed to the necessary bots, he hadn’t given a whole lot of conscious thought to the sparkling. He’d been so busy with the thought of what to do and what to say. It finally seemed to hit him – that it would no longer be just him alone. Even now, he wasn’t entirely alone. Though the sparkling wasn’t capable of anything at this point, just knowing that the bitlet was there was a strange sort of comfort.

Ultra put the pad down and scooted his chair back a little bit, putting the flat part of his palms against his midsection. It would be quite a while before he could feel something there, but he hoped that at least the sparkling was even slightly aware of him, its carrier.

Cliffjumper chose that exact moment to open the door. There was an Elite Guardsbot trailing behind him, a femme that stood right by the entrance of the door and crossed her arms over her chassis.

“I was only given information about this by Trion a few cycles ago, so I’m not happy,” Cliffjumper grabbed a stack of datapads from his subspace, dumped them on the surface of the Magnus’s desk, and set a harsh glare on Ultra Magnus. “So let me get to the thick of it. You are sparked?”

Ultra put his servos on the desk, folded one over the other, and nodded.

“I’ll be getting more information from Red Alert then. And from what I was told, the sire of your sparkling is none other than Megatron himself?”

Ultra tightened the line of his lipplates, and nodded. Cliffjumper was slowly getting to be very good at hiding his true emotions in his faceplates, but his optics always gave it away. In them, Ultra saw something that was very reminiscent of anger.

“I hope you were aware that you broke a law while you were at it, and by sheer position of power, _you_ are the one that is guilty until proven innocent.”

Fear entered Ultra’s spark, and he cast a glance over at the Elite Guardsbot. “You are aware that the Autobot Commonwealth functions under the “innocent until proven guilty” law, aren’t you?”

The small red Autobot gave Ultra a very flat look. “Sir, you just finished presiding over a trial where the accused was guilty the entire way, and no bot would ever think of him as being innocent.”

“Because we all know what Megatron did.”

“Then why did you get yourself sparked up by him?”

The question was so blunt and acidic that it stopped Ultra’s functions for a moment, but even if it hadn’t been, he didn’t have an answer. He only glared at Cliffjumper before changing back to the subject. “What law did I break?”

The minibot grabbed a datapad from the stack he held in his servos, activated it, and slid it across the surface of the desk towards the Magnus. “A couple of statues regarding abuse of power. From what it looks like, you abused your title as Magnus to get Megatron to interface with you, which also happened to result in a sparkling. How’s that for “what law did I break?””

Ultra skimmed his optics over the text on the screen, then slid the datapad back to Cliffjumper. “I broke no law, because I absolutely did not get Megatron to interface with me simply because I was on a power trip of sorts.”

 “That’s what it looks like to me, and that is exactly what it is going to look like to everyone on Cybertron when this news gets out.”

Pinching the bridge of his nasal plates between his pointer digit and thumb, Ultra in-vented deeply and counted to ten before continuing. “Will I be charged for this or face any more trouble in any sort of capacity?”

Cliffjumper replied. “Depends on what I get out of Megatron later this solar cycle. If he so much as hints that you actually did the initiating of the interfacing, you’ll be facing impeachment by tomorrow.”

The Magnus moved a servo to hang at his side and he curled it into a fist for a moment before relaxing it. “I did not abuse my position as Magnus to goad Megatron into an interface, nor did I initiate it.” Ultra grit his dentae. “I don’t know how much clearer I can make it than that.”

“That will be up to me to decide, Ultra Magnus.”

Ultra had a hard time not letting his frustration show through the bright flare of his optics. He decided to change the subject only a slight bit; drumming his digits on the desk, he said, “I was told by the High Council that you would be taking my statement to be released to the public.” After Cliffjumper gave a curt nod, Ultra finished, “I won’t be giving a statement. I will instruct the High Council to release one in my stead.”

The edge of Cliffjumper’s mouth gave a strange quirk before it settled back into a straight line. “That’s completely up to you.” He cleared his vocalizer and stood up. “For now, just as we did with Powered Convoy before we stuck you into power, we’re relieving you of your duties and tracking your communication attempts until we decide that you really didn’t seduce Megatron and get sparked by him on purpose.”

And with that final statement, Cliffjumper gathered up his datapads and left the room, the Elite Guardsbot marching behind him.

From his desk, Ultra sent the command for the door to close and latch behind it. He thought of trying to get into contact with the Autobot High Council, but then decided against it. All he could do for now was sit at his desk and run his digits over the handle of the Magnus Hammer that was propped against the nearest wall.

He had a feeling that his cycles with it were far less than he had previously hoped.

.-.-.

With nothing to do while he was confined in Trypticon Prison, at least until the guards would come to fetch him for his final march in front of a crowd of jeering Autobots, Megatron recharged.

He’d gotten it in his processor at one point to ask for some literature or something else to occupy his time, but the guards had merely stared at him. One had laughed, and he found himself wishing that his weapons hadn’t been deactivated.

The only thing there was to do in his little cell was to lie down and recharge, but he supposed it wasn’t entirely a terrible thing; he’d become so used to the sleepless nights and entirely long cycles that leading the Decepticons that he hadn’t realized how much he missed being able to just lie down.

However, the monotony of his solar cycles was still dull. He found himself actually missing Lugnut and Shockwave’s bickering.

He’d asked where they were, and all he’d been told was that they were in adjacent cells and that they had to muzzle Lugnut sometime in the second solar cycle of imprisonment. At the very least, he knew they were alive.

Part of him wondered if and when they would get to go on trial. And if he would be able to see them again, if only to tell Shockwave that he had been an excellent Decepticon, and tell Lugnut to learn the value of silence.

There were many questions he had, but he figured that he wouldn’t concern himself with them now.

His thoughts turned briefly to the Magnus, and how he’d collapsed to the floor at the very close of his mockery of a trial. Megatron wondered how Ultra was faring from it all – he supposed that Ultra had to be still functioning, given that there was no talk amongst the guards of replacing him or any signs of the mourning that he supposed Autobots would go into if their esteemed leader fell offline.

A sentiment that felt like a sort of affection pulsed in a corner of his spark at the thought of Ultra. Megatron’s lipplates twitched upward into a flickering, brief smile. The pale faceplates, the tired but still vibrant blue optics that held secrets and wisdom, the stern and gentle tone of voice.

The Magnus didn’t have an entirely bad frame either. The addition of the powerful Magnus Hammer held in those strong servos was the best thing that topped it all off.

He supposed that it was a good thing that he’d at least had his last wish granted prior to the end of the trial. There was no possible way that it could have happened, not with the guards stationed so directly outside of his cell block and within audio shot.

A noise roused him from his light recharge. Megatron sat up and blinked his optics in the direction of the door.

“-keep it open, will you?”

“Are you going to deploy the cell bars, Cliffjumper?”

“Of course not I’m not gonna, I’m not Ultra Magnus. I just need to ask questions. One of you, come in with me.”

The door opened, and into his visual field came a very small Autobot colored bright red with piercing blue optics, and another guard.

Megatron stood up and narrowed his optics. “What is all this about?”

The small Autobot, whom he supposed went by the “Cliffjumper” designation he’d heard a bit ago, gave him a look that made him go back a half of a step. “You tell me, Lord Megatron.” The bot tapped on the screen of a datapad. “What is the nature of your relationship with Ultra Magnus, the elected leader and Autobot Commander of Cybertron and the Autobot Commonwealth?”

Giving a slight snort, Megatron stepped closer to the thick glass pane that kept him isolated in his cell. “If it can be called a relationship, I merely spoke with him a few times post my capture.”

Cliffjumper levied a look at him over the top of the datapad. “We know you did a few more things than that, so start being a little more truthful.”

Oh. So the Magnus had told his constituents after all. Quashing the anger that he felt bubbling up in his spark, Megatron closed his servos into fists and ex-vented hot air. “What exactly did he tell you?”

“This is an inquiry, Megatron,” Cliffjumper snapped. “I’m not going to tell you what I learned from our Magnus – I need to hear your side of the entire encounter first.”

This Autobot was entirely fearless. Megatron got a hold of his fury and relaxed his servos. “I confessed to your Magnus that I’d desired him for quite a while. After a long time of him making absolutely certain that that was what I was saying, and that I was not trying to deceive him, my seduction worked.”

“So it was you that initiated it after all, and not our leader, Ultra Magnus?”

Megatron snorted again. “I don’t think that mech could try and goad someone into berth if his life cycle depended on it. Not that he was bad in berth, after all. He simply doesn’t desire it, I believe.”

Both the guard and Cliffjumper looked very disturbed at the revelation from the Decepticon, and Megatron had to hold back a chuckle at their expense.

“And you will continue to affirm that it was you that initiated the entire affair, and not Ultra Magnus?”

A second question, repeating the previous one. Megatron hated it when that happened. He pursed his lipplates. “I will continue to affirm it, yes. Ultra did nothing entirely wrong.”

Megatron had to ask himself why he was coming to such a staunch defense of the mech he’d called his rival for so many millennia. He would ask it of himself and do a spark search later – right now, he was preoccupied with other matters. “What called you here, Autobot?”

Cliffjumper continued to tap on the screen of the datapad for what felt like far too long, at least for Megatron’s liking. The Decepticon warlord stared harshly at the Autobot, hoping that the feeling of his gaze would get the red mech to answer him immediately. However, the more that nanokliks passed, the more he realized that the Autobot didn’t give a singular frag.

After a few kliks, Cliffjumper looked up and at the guard, addressing him directly. “Get the High Council on a call with me when I board the shuttle, tell them I’ve got the preliminary results of the inquiry.”

The guard smirked. “That was quick.”

“Yeah well, both of them didn’t beat around the technobush.”

“What was the purpose of this inquiry, Autobot?” Megatron said, aware that he sounded very snappish and not caring.

Cliffjumper finally looked at him. “Ultra didn’t say anything to anyone. His frame did.”

The answer was confusing to the Decepticon. Megatron furrowed his optic ridges. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“You sparked up our Magnus, Megatron. I don’t know and don’t care if it was an accident or on purpose, but it happened.”

Megatron heard the entire sentence, but he was unable to process it past the first five words. It was impossible, he thought. He had to be the victim of a prank. Shockwave had told him eons ago that the Autobots were incapable of creating sparklings, and he trusted his spy far more than he could throw him.

“You’re joking.”

The small Autobot gave him a look that had him consider that he should be shrinking into himself. “Oh, trust me, I wish I were.”

“When?”

“When what?”

“When was it discovered? That Ultra is sparked?”

Cliffjumper put the datapad away. “When he fainted at the end of your trial.”

Megatron watched the little Autobot retreat from the room and heard the light slam of the door shutting behind him, leaving the leader of the Decepticons alone. Staring at a point on the wall, Megatron sat back down on his berth.

This time, he didn’t immediately fall back into recharge. His mind was too active and full of questions to allow him any semblance of peace.

.-.-.

**For Immediate Release: Statement from the Autobot High Council**

**Recipient: Cybertron**

_Per the wishes of the elected and esteemed Magnus of Cybertron, the High Council has taken upon itself to write this announcement. Ultra Magnus has confirmed, as have the medics of Fortress Maximus, that he is currently sparked._

_In what he describes as “gross misconduct” on his part and at which he has expressed his sorrow and regret, Ultra Magnus has revealed that the sire of his sparkling is Megatron, the leader of the Decepticon faction of Cybertronians._

_An Autobot-led inquiry has been launched into Ultra Magnus’s conduct regarding the circumstances that led to the conception of the sparkling he currently carries. The results of the inquiry will be made public knowledge when available._

_For the time being, Ultra Magnus has been relieved of his duties, with the High Council taking charge of the leadership of Cybertron for the time being. Depending on the final results of the inquiry, he will either face his own trial, or have his powers restored to full capacity._

_We expect that this news should have little, if any, impact on the state of affairs on Cybertron and the state of the citizens of the Autobot Commonwealth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be starting full-time work this upcoming Monday, the sixth of March, meaning that I will probably now have a little more of a delay between updates. I'll do my best to keep no more than two weeks between posting new chapters, but there's no guarantee I can make.


	10. Pockets Full Of Stones

Were he inclined to write a memoir of his life cycle, this was the chapter he would title as one simple word: “Regrets.”

Ultra stared out of the window of his office, servos held together behind his back as he looked at the glistening skyline of Iacon City. It looked no different from the solar cycle before, or the one before that. Or the decacycle before.

But he knew deep in his spark that there was trouble brewing.

Cliffjumper and Perceptor had come in the solar cycle after the inquiry that had found him innocent of manipulating Megatron and had commandeered access to his personal inbox. All he was told was that the public had turned virulently against him, and that it was for his personal safety that he not look at what was being said.

Quite frankly, he didn’t blame them.

These were the most boring solar cycles he’d had while being the elected Magnus of Cybertron. The times he’d considered to be the most boring were the ones where he had spent all the solar cycle behind his desk with only a stack of datapads for company.

Now, he found himself craving even that level of monotony to be restored to his routine.

He had none to speak of for now. After a single solar cycle of being able to resume his duties as Magnus, the ability had been removed from him.

And so he here was, cooped up in his quarters under four guards instead of the usual two. When he’d looked outside briefly, he saw the disgust on their faceplates.

He would have been wholly disgusted with himself as well, if it weren’t for the warmness he felt in his spark when he thought of the little being he was carrying. Ratchet had assured him that that was just his frame’s chemistry changing, and as horrifying as it could be to a mech of his stoic nature, it was supposed to be the norm.

Ultra moved his servos from his back, hanging one to his side and placing the flat of the palm of the other one on his middle.

It would be a stellar cycle, perhaps a little more depending on the size of the sparkling, before he would get to see the bitlet face to face. And in this time, where everything was in doubt and the future was uncertain, he found that getting to meet the small being that he and Megatron had managed to create was the one thing he was looking forward to.

A knock came at his office, and he snapped out of his gazing, crossing the length of the room and opening it to see Alpha Trion standing there.

No pleasantries were exchanged; the first thing the Senior High Councilor did was cross the threshold and order that the door be closed. When that was done, he turned to Ultra and sighed heavily.

“We’ve been fielding questions upon questions regarding what circumstances exactly led to you laying with Megatron.”

Ultra narrowed his optics. “If you’re here to get an answer-”

“I don’t know and I don’t care to know, Ultra,” Alpha Trion snapped. “I’m here to ask you exactly what you’ve decided to do regarding the furor and the calls for your resignation.”

He’d heard them. Indeed there were those Cybertronians that had wanted him to resign from the moment that it was announced that Powered Convoy had left a living will that named him the successor to the office of Magnus, claiming he hadn’t had the experience necessary to take on such a daunting and important office.

“You need to decide what’s best for Cybertron, and for you, Ultra.”

The Magnus looked into the pleading blue optics of the Senior Councilor. “And what do you think that decision is, if I may ask?”

In Alpha Trion’s optics he could see the battle being waged, the firing of the points along his neural net and processor as he came to an impasse.

“I’m damned if I do,” the elder of the two mechs sighed after a long silence, “and damned if I don’t. I believe for your best interests,” he rolled a shoulder strut, “it’s best that you resign from your position as Magnus before this matter gets drawn out even further.”

.-.-.

It had been such a long while since he’d known what “sparked” meant that he had to send a communication request to Ratchet and ask him what that was. The medic had groused at him that he was fielding the same questions from the Earth team.

When he received the answer, Optimus knew then and there exactly why everyone around him was so agitated and upset.

The Prime stepped out of his quarters and saw few of his fellow Elite Guardbots walking around. Those that were out of their quarters the same as he was looked amongst each other, and he heard soft chatter amongst them.

He didn’t need to tune in to figure out what the subject of the gossip was about. Or rather, _whom_.

It was a bit of a walk through the maze of corridors that comprised Fortress Maximus until Optimus found himself outside, able to look up at the darkening sky and count the stars that were revealing themselves for another night.

Even the atmosphere outside felt a little bit different. It felt heavy with the summation of everyone’s disbelief at the news.

First there had been a sense of shock – only a servoful of bots alive could even remember what a sparkling was and the exact process that led to the creation of one. Many of the surviving Autobots had been forged cold via the AllSpark, just as Optimus had been. He remembered coming online, being named, and within a fraction of time being whisked off to begin training for data clerk duties. Later on, he tried out for the Elite Guard, making it through.

From what he had been told, there would be a long journey for these sparklings to even be able to consider being a data clerk. What had taken him a few cycles to comprehend would take them eons.

He couldn’t imagine it. He heard Ratchet mumble under his breath that almost all of the last round of sparklings had gone offline during the war – the only one he could recall being alive off the top of his helm was Cliffjumper.

This was something brand new for everyone on Cybertron in some way, shape, or form.

Optimus wanted to go to the topmost level of the residence tower and knock on Ultra Magnus’s front door, ask if it was all true.

He had a feeling that he wouldn’t be able to access the mech he’d seen as his mentor, and that had seen him as a mentee, so easily.

So Optimus made his way forward into the back streets, and then the main streets, of Iacon. At the first glance he took he didn’t see much in the way of difference. It was still as brightly lit and populated with bots that preferred to be out at night instead of the day. The same advertisements for oils and energon, frame fixes and polishes, beamed down from the screens affixed atop Iacon’s buildings.

But there was a little bit of a terse tinge in the air, and not everybot that was out and about seemed eager as they would have been previously to revel in the defeat of the Decepticons. They were in gathered in and walked around the streets in smaller groups, making Optimus feel a tad isolated and alone.

He thought about going to Maccadam’s but decided against it. The very last thing he needed was to get overcharged on a night cycle like this.

With nowhere to go and nothing to do on this night, he wandered around Iacon, mapping out and refamiliarizing himself with the streets as he used to do when he and Elita and Sentinel were cadets and the worry of Megatron having a chance at victory hung in the air.

In the terse air he heard a few whispered comments. Many of them were insults towards the mech he’d looked up to for such a long time.

Normally he would have put the insulters in their place, just as he used to do with Sentinel when he would scoff and gripe about how Ultra was too old, with a servo and a half in the scrapheap, and how he should have taken his retirement before they even came online and came into the Elite Guard. But he couldn’t find the words to say, and part of him didn’t even know if he really would have meant the defense in the first place.

He wouldn’t deny what he felt – he felt betrayed. Like the clear image he’d just regained of the Ultra Magnus that had admitted his follies in the stellar cycles past had blurred over once more as when he’d been told to stop trying to be a hero.

A realization that Ultra Magnus was really just as prone to mistakes and folly as the lowliest bartender at Maccadam’s was.

And in this instance, the larger in life the figure, the more repercussions to be had for said follies.

Optimus heard a ping and a notification that he’d just received a message popped up in his visual field. He opened it and saw that it was from Cliffjumper.

_Ultra Magnus wants to meet with you during the early cycle tomorrow. Don’t ask what it’s about – I don’t know._

_-Signed, Cliffjumper-_

.-.-.

No Magnus had lived quite long enough to fully retire and take advantage of the benefits given to them after they retired from office. Ultra was the fourth in a line of titleholders that stretched back billions of stellar cycles, so he would be the first, and hopefully not the last.

Seeing the look in Alpha Trion’s faceplates had cemented what he’d considered for a long time, even before the entire business of carrying a sparkling had come about. He was tired, and if Cybertron as a whole no longer wanted him in power, then by all means that would be his last gift to them.

Ultra held Stormbringer in his servos, looking at the Magnus Hammer with reverent optics before he leaned it against the wall.

Alpha Trion had let him in on some of the vile and cruel messages that had made its way through his personal communication system that Cliffjumper and Perceptor had overtaken. Some of them were insults, many of them were the aforementioned calls for his resignation, but a little thing had popped up in a few of them that steeled his resolve even more – that he could win favor back by immediately sending Megatron to execution and terminating his bitlet.

Termination of the Decepticon warlord would wind up being the next Magnus’s problem. But nothing would keep him from his bitlet. The only thing he looked forward to now was seeing their face.

On the surface of his desk sat a large stack of datapads that needed his signatures as he signed away his rights and accepted what would be given to him, the first of the titled Magni to live long enough to retire.

He would still be known as a former Magnus, a title he had worked for and that he had held for a very long time. Plus, he found that just being addressed as “Ultra” didn’t hold a lot of weight behind it.

For the rest of a Magnus’s life cycle, they would continue to receive a stipend. It had always been an obscene amount, Ultra felt when he had been given the work to sign eons ago when he had become Magnus. There wouldn’t be a need for most of it, he felt and knew, even with a sparkling added to the mix.

A third of it was just fine, he figured. It was the same as his current stipend, but where he was going, he didn’t need the excess things he paid for here of his own account.

Then there was the text that promised him a contingent of Elite Guards to service protection around his domicile for the remainder of his life cycle. They would be better off used in Fortress Maximus and stationed at outposts along the rim of the galaxy.

Ultra scratched the wording out and wrote a note on the side affirming his decision to forego the extra protection. He expected that Alpha Trion would have something to say about him foregoing the contingent of security guards.

A knock came at his office door. Ultra reached under the surface of his desk and pressed the button to let it unlatch. Ratchet, followed by Red Alert, came in.

“Fraggin’ kids,” Ratchet muttered, grumping and dumping a few datapads on Ultra’s desk. “I’m tired of answerin’ these questions.”

“I told you that you can direct them to me,” Red Alert put her own pile of datapds on the small bit of empty space left on the desk, “to alleviate the load of questions you’ve been getting.”

“What questions?” Ultra inquired.

“They’re all questions about how this happened an’ slag.”

“That’s a fairly broad statement, Ratchet.”

“What he means is,” Red Alert sighed and pressed a servo to her optics, “many bots are asking for extremely detailed answers to their questions about how sparklings come into being.”

Ultra quirked an optic ridge. “I was under the impression that the information you and Ratchet had gleaned from the trove of datapads was going to be released to the public at large.”

“It has been. They just don’t read.”

Well, there was that. He’d encountered momentary illiteracy many times in his solar cycles as a Magnus sending out decrees and getting messages asking for information that was already well-stated.

“Also,” Ratchet cleared his vocalizer, which did nothing to alleviate the level of grump in his vocal tone, “there’s apparently been some faint chatter ‘mongst Decepticon sympathizers that left Cybertron an’ established their own colonies eons ago. Sayin’ that you tricked Megatron.”

 _That_ got Ultra’s attention. He quickly glanced upward from the newest datapad he’d taken out of the pile to sign and widened his optics. “Tricked Megatron into what, exactly?”

“Well, tricked Megatron into creatin’ a bitlet with you, that’s what.”

Ultra pinched his nasal bridge between his thumb and pointing digit, sighing in frustration.

“I wonder exactly what their train of thought is to lead them to that particular conclusion. What exactly would I get from conceiving and carrying a sparkling sired by Megatron? What do they say about that?”

Ratchet grumbled to himself faintly before clearing his vocalizer again. “That you’re gettin’ some sort of sick kick from controllin’ Megatron.”

Finding himself biting down hard on his lower lipplate, Ultra drew the top line of dentae back into his oral cavity and crossed his arms over his chassis. “I would think that if I wanted in my core to control Megatron, that I would have purposefully tricked him into creating this bitlet with me eons ago, at the height of the war in an attempt to stop it in its tracks. Perhaps those accusing me of wanting to control Megatron should think on their words a little further.”

“Yeah well, these are the same bots that think the ‘cons aren’t as bad as the Autobots are.”

There was a pause of silence, then Red Alert cleared her own vocalizer. “I’m assuming you’re almost done with your own stack of datapads, sir?”

Ultra looked back down at the few he had left. He nodded.

“What are those all about?”

The Magnus figured that if anyone were to know, it should be his two caretakers for this little journey he was about to embark on. “I’ve decided,” he started out slowly, parsing his words, “that for the best interests of Cybertron that I will resign from my position as Magnus effective in one decacycle.”

A stunned quiet fell over the two medics.

“Resigning?”

Ultra nodded once in affirmation. “Before either of you begin to protest, if you were so inclined, this wasn’t a very easy decision to make. But I feel that it is the right one, given the circumstances of the conception of my sparkling and the response that the news has gotten.”

He could tell that both of them were holding something back, and for the sake of his decision and his signatures on almost all of the datpads he’d signed, he decided not to ask what they were thinking of saying.

“That’s a very noble thing of you to do sir.” Red Alert had an expression on her faceplates that was a mixture of understanding and something that resembled disappointment. She put her servos on her hips and straightened her posture. “And we’ll miss addressing you as our Magnus. But,” she got a small sparkle in her optic that normally, at least from Ultra’s experience, spelled a bit of trouble. “Don’t think that that means you’ll be seeing the last of us.”

Ultra’s faceplates broke out into a small smile. “I wouldn’t think of it.”

Ratchet made a small snorting noise and crossed his arms over his chassis. “Ya fragged up a lot, but we’ll be stickin’ by you, even if you didn’t really stick by us when we were missin’ and all.”

Right. That. Ultra closed his optics and gave a very short nod. “Your point is taken.”

When he reopened his optics, Ratchet had the most self-satisfied look he’d ever seen a bot have on their faceplates.

Red Alert’s voice filtered into his audio receptors. “Here are the datapads with all the information we’ve gotten from the trove in the lower levels. We put as much of it as could fit in here, but we’re still deciphering a lot of old medic notes on carrying cycles and caring for sparklings, and it could take us a while to fully understand what’ll be going on.”

Signing off the last datapad that allowed him to still be able to be tended to by Elite Guard medics, Ultra put it on the stack of signed datapads and turned to the two towers that had been unceremoniously piled onto his desk. He picked one up, and just the title immediately gave him anxiety and threw him off.

““The first three decacycles”?”

“Hey, it’s a lot of information we gotta keep minin’ through.”

“We’ll be keeping an optic on you and the bitlet. There’s a wealth of information that’ll guide us through in caring for a carrying bot and caring for a bitlet, but it’s going to be a learning process for everyone here.”

Ultra closed his optics, sighed heavily, then reopened them and gave both medics a grateful grin. “Thank you, both of you.”


	11. Between the Two of Us

That night was filled with dreams. Some didn’t stir any sort of emotion from him, but the one that did was the one of warmth and contentedness he felt upon seeing a small frame darting through a mountainous landscape, giggling and laughing and beckoning him to come and play.

When he tried to catch up to the little frame it only darted further away from him, leaving echoes of happiness and giggles in its wake. He could only see the shadow of the frame, the disturbance of the tall grass on the ground as the impossibly small figure darting away. Any features of the bitlet were lost to him, his processor’s optic unable to decipher anything.

The light of the rising sun filtered through the small window in Ultra’s berthroom, rousing him from recharge. He lay in the warmth, optics closed against the glare and a contented smile on his faceplates.

At least, until the nausea hit him.

Ultra swiftly sat up and reached for the waste bin that he had set up by his berthside, pulling it between his thighs and retching into its shallow depths. His processor spun and ached horribly with the force, as it always did.

He’d been told that it would probably last a good quarter to a third of his carrying cycle, and that in the past some bots had been unfortunate enough that the nausea lasted the _entire_ time. Needless to say, he wasn’t looking forward to it.

All he could do was hope that it would pass him by soon enough that he could still be early for his meeting with Optimus.

It registered in his mind that this was the first solar cycle he’d woken up to where the end was most definitely in sight. A decacycle, and he would be heading out of Fortress Maximus without the itinerary telling him that he would be returning that night.

The remaining High Councilors had expressed something akin to resignation when he’d presented the datapads to them. They’d reminded him that in the end it would be up to them to approve his successor.

With the two viable options that were left for the position, he had no problem believing that they would approve of his only choice.

.-.-.

Optimus had set his internal alarm to wake him well before the morning cycle came, but even his anxiety and restlessness had that beat.

He sat in the thankfully empty common area, slowly sipping a cube of energon and watching the stars gradually fade out and the sky turn from a deep, navy blue to a brighter shade of azure. The lights of Iacon that had shone so prominently during the night were now a blend with the daylight.

His spark was troubled, as was his processor. Optimus had tried not to worry so much about the meeting with Ultra Magnus, but he knew well enough that it was far easier said than done.

Not even his imagination could come up with something that the meeting could be about. Was it just going to be Ultra confirming the news? If it were, Optimus would have to prevent himself from saying that it could have taken just a message over his communication link, and that it would have saved them time.

Just as he managed to get the last droplet of energon to slide out of the cube and onto his glossa, a message appeared in his inbox.

It was Cliffjumper telling him that Ultra Magnus was waiting for him.

The anxiety he had been feeling amped up. He tossed the empty cube into the nearest waste receptacle and walked out towards the lifts, taking it all the way up to the top floor, where the Magnus’s quarters and office were.

When the lift doors parted, he noticed that there were guards standing in front of the door that separated him and Ultra Magnus. They looked at him, then at each other, then stepped aside.

“I, uh,” Optimus started as he cleared his vocalizer, “was told that Ultra Magnus wants to see me.”

“We’re aware,” the guard on his left said, pressing his own servo to the security pad. The light from the pad turned from red to green, and the door opened, showing off a particularly dark corridor. Optimus entered, though not without some trepidation, as the hallway seemed to go on for forever.

He’d been in here before, so he knew that the Magnus’s office was on the right side, second door down. The office was open when he reached it, and he ducked into the darkened office, looking around for the mech that had summoned him.

“I’m here, Optimus.”

He was right by the window, and Optimus wondered how the Pit he’d managed to miss the large silhouette.

Optimus cleared his vocalizer again. It seemed to be all he could bring himself to do. He stood at attention. “Cliffjumper informed me that you wanted to speak with me, sir.”

Ultra Magnus paused for a moment, and then turned around so his back was to the window and his bright, yet tired blue optics looked directly at the young Prime. He nodded and then stepped closer to Optimus. “I regret that this meeting didn’t happen under better circumstances.”

The Prime said nothing, only regarding the Magnus warily.

“Here is the situation, Optimus,” Ultra Magnus sighed heavily, servos twitching as they hung at his sides. “The news will be going out later today, but you are going to be one of the first to know. I’ve turned in my resignation, effective starting in nine solar cycles.”

The entirely blunt and to-the-point statement knocked Optimus off his pedes in a figurative sense. He blinked his blue optics and reached out to his side for the chair that he knew was there. When he found it, he pulled it closer and sat down, watching as the Magnus did the same to put them on relatively equal level.

“You’re resigning?” Optimus finally managed to say, optics wide as he stared at the mech on the other side of the desk. “Why?”

An ashen expression came over Ultra Magnus’s faceplates. His optics glazed over slightly with a faraway look to them.

“The circumstances that I’ve found myself in are far less than ideal, Optimus. Cybertron, the High Council, and myself will not have this. This was the furthest thing from an easy decision, but it’s one that I had to make for the sake of Cybertron.”

Optimus wanted to ask him why he’d put himself in that position in the first place, ultimately deciding against it. However, it must have shown on his faceplates, because Ultra straightened his posture in the chair. “I know you have questions. I don’t know when the next time we will meet will be, so by all means, please ask them.”

The young bot stared at the elder mech and said nothing, silence falling between the both of them.

“I don’t really have anything to say, sir. I wanted to ask you “why” but…”

“I ask myself that same thing too, Optimus. I’m still searching for that answer.” A wry grin came over the Magnus’s pale faceplates. “But I will let you know when I find it out.”

Optimus couldn’t help the grin that he flashed at his superior. Then he slackened it and asked his second, and probably final he figured, question. “Why did you call me here specifically, and not anyone else?”

A somewhat resigned look replaced the wry grin. Ultra Magnus cast his optics downward for a brief moment, closed them, and then reopened them before he looked Optimus back in his optics. “The High Council informed me that, given that I am still living and cognizant enough to make decisions, I am able to choose who may succeed me. They still need to perform a background check and come to the final decision themselves. That is why I called you here – I would like for you to take up the title.”

Optimus felt as if a large weight had struck him and settled in his tanks. He was glad that he had been seated, otherwise he might have completely fallen down and given himself processor damage.

Him? Magnus? A long time ago he’d entertained the notion, but now he wasn’t entirely sure.

In his process of processing the information, Optimus stammered and then managed to say, “Isn’t there anyone else that would be better fit for the title?”

Ultra twisted his lipplates in an expression of thought, then emitted a short sigh. “Rodimus’s outlook is dismal at best; it’s incredibly unlikely at this point in time that he’ll ever wake from his stasis lock, and if so, I don’t think he’d be ready to handle the title and responsibilities that come with this position. Even if Longarm hadn’t wound up being a Decepticon agent, I wouldn’t have picked him for the position.”

“And Sentinel?”

That got Optimus a dark look.

“Frankly I’d rather eat my own servo than let Sentinel take over the leadership position again. I didn’t appreciate waking up to the absolute mockery that he’d made of the Elite Guard. Not that I made the situation much be-”

Ultra suddenly stopped, an expression of confusion on his faceplates.

“Sir?” Optimus inquired after a bit of silence.

“I apologize. The sparkling…” he closed his optics. “I’d been informed that it could happen this early but I didn’t think it would.”

“What is it?”

“They’re trying to reach out to me. I don’t know why, but…”

Silence fell between the both of them again.

“I’m aware that it sounds incredibly odd. It’s a learning experience on both of our ends, Optimus, but I have the largest of the learning curves to overcome.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but did you think about how… how this would affect you? Do you really want to retire? Can you have this sparkling and still be Magnus?”

“There’s nothing to reconsider. I’ve made my peace with it.” Ultra Magnus in-vented deeply and ex-vented. “My retirement is long overdue,” he mumbled quietly but still at a volume that Optimus could hear.

Optimus picked up the motion of the Magnus’s servo moving, twitching in the general direction of his middle, before it ceased and Ultra stiffened it.

“So knowing what I’ve told you, do you believe you’ve come to a decision?”

As much as he preferred working from behind the lights and loathed the idea of being at the center of attention, there was no way he was going to let Sentinel take up the mantle once more. There was a time, not all that long ago, that he would have been perfectly fine with the idea and would have supported his friend with all his spark.

But that was not that long ago, before he’d finally come to face the truth. Sentinel could be competent in the role of Magnus, but the ego he possessed blinded him.

Optimus cleared his vocalizer and took a moment to ask himself what his answer was. He came to it. “I will do it.”

Ultra seemed to brighten just a little bit. A half-smile formed on his faceplates and stayed there for a fleeting moment before it disappeared. Nodding, the Magnus reached across the desk with a servo and held one of Optimus’s in it before pulling his arm back. “You’re going to be a far better Magnus than I was. I’m sure of it.”

The compliment both flattered and unnerved Optimus in the sense that he could now feel the immense pressure being put upon him. He smiled despite the anxiety that he now felt rising in his spark.

“You’ll need to report to the High Council once I submit this one last datapad,” Ultra laid his servo on a small pad that had been laying on the surface of the desk, “and they will go through the motions to confirm you. But as it stands now,” the half-smile came back again, and then formed into a fuller smile, “I pledge my own allegiance to you, future Magnus of Cybertron.”

It wasn’t until Optimus had left the office and descended back to his floor on the lift that he realized what he had just agreed to.

The young Prime, soon-to-be Magnus, sat in the still-empty common area and stared out at the sky over Iacon, pondering life.

.-.-.

Time passed a lot more quickly than Ultra could register. Before he knew it, the sun had set, and he’d spent almost all of the waking hours in a solar cycle in his office looking at the same datapad over and over again. The last time this had happened, he’d been a lot younger with more fire in his spark.

His digits trailed over the center of his chassis, trying to reach out to the sparkling who had sent insistent tugs to his spark, as if trying to grab his attention.

It hadn’t been quite so long, though the datapads he’d been given had said there were instances of the bitlet making itself known mere cycles after conception.

Throughout the talk he’d had with Optimus the pings and tugs had abated, and the moment Optimus had left he’d tried to regain the sparkling’s attention, trying to see if he could talk to it. The chances of the sparkling responding back were slim, and the chances of the sparkling being able to understand him were none, but he was still curious.

He still had to give it a try.

Each solar cycle since he’d heard the shattering discovery, he’d thought that the news had finally hit him that he was carrying the first sparkling that Cybertron would see after such a long time of no births.

Somehow, though, the sparkling’s attempt to reach out to him, to communicate with him, made the fact all the more real.

If a carrier responded in kind to their bitlet, continued nurturing their fledgling sparkbond, the bond between both would be very strong, and given his memories of trying to reach out to his own creators as a very young bitlet and getting nothing in response, he was determined that he wouldn’t allow that to happen again.

A flicker of warmth crossed his spark before fading out at the exact same time that Ratchet and Red Alert both showed up on his communication feed.

“You alive, Ultra?”

Ultra groused back at Ratchet, slightly irritated at the interruption. “Barely. What can I help you both with?”

The look that both medics exchanged unnerved Ultra. Red Alert was the first to break optic-lock with the other mech and turn to look directly at the Magnus. “You need to call off Megatron’s execution.”

Setting his jaw into a hard line and making sure his trademark stern expression was on his faceplates, Ultra narrowed his optics at the duo. “Don’t presume to tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“Need to call it off for now, else the bitlet and probably you are gonna go offline,” Ratchet said, glaring at Ultra with the same intensity that the Magnus was doing with him.

All Ultra needed to hear were the words “bitlet” and “offline” to wipe the stern look from his faceplates and replace them with apprehension and fear. He blinked his optics at the two medics and had to pause and align his words in his processor for two or three nanokliks before he managed to ask, “How could that happen?”

Red Alert waved a datapad. “Those medic notes from the time spanning back to before you ascended to being a Magnus, Ultra. Autobot casualties on the battlefield often exacerbated the overall Autobot casualty count if someone who had recently become a creator went offline. They took their sparkling, and sometimes their mate, with them.”

Ultra remembered the first time he’d walked into Powered Convoy’s office, which had been this exact room, and the conversation they’d had. Soon after he and the rest of the Autobot contingent had been sterilized to prevent further loss of life than was necessary for a war. He closed his optics. He couldn't believe that he'd forgotten about the conversation entirely, and he'd been the one to bring it up to Red Alert previously. “They mention a Breaker Minor, his mate, and his sparkling, don’t they?” he asked.

He heard the bit of surprise in Ratchet’s voice as he replied, “Uh, yeah, they do. Friend of yours?”

Ultra reopened his optics and minutely shook his helm. “We were acquainted back then.” He sighed deeply. “My predecessor was the one that drew the connection that the medics looked into, and by going off prior history, confirmed.” Casting his optics downward, Ultra murmured more to himself than to anyone else, “I can’t believe I'd completely forgotten about that. I'd brought it up..." he trailed off and looked out the window, deep in thought.

The first sparkling to be born in millions of stellar cycles wasn’t about to die thanks to something that could be averted.

Placing a servo over his chassis and wrapping his other arm around his midsection, Ultra looked at Red Alert and Ratchet again. “I want the both of you to look further into the archives and see what else might affect the sparkling’s life. This is the first of many and possibly the most important.”

Both medics nodded, and then the video feed winked out, leaving the screen blank.

Ultra sat back in his seat and stared at the ceiling for a long while before sending a message to the High Council with the heading of “URGENT.”

.-.-.

He’d been moved from his solitary isolation chamber to one where he at least had some semblance of company.

If Lugnut yelling at the end of the hallway could count as some form of company.

Megatron retreated from the cell door, where he’d been staring out into the hallway to see what the ruckus had been about, and put his servos over his audio receptors to muffle the sounds of the near-riot happening just outside.

Decepticons were screaming and yelling to be let out, as always, but his designation had been thrown around a few times in the same sentence as Ultra Magnus’s. The noise was over the sparkling that he and the Magnus had unwittingly conceived.

Megatron didn’t understand the need for the upset. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would never get to speak to Ultra again, would never get to see a sparkling before he went offline. He moved his servos from his audio receptors and, finding that this time around it was only Lugnut and Blitzwing yelling at each other from across the hall, sank back on his too-small berth.

A pair of guards appeared before him quite suddenly, both bearing energon prods, a cube of energon clutched in one’s servo. Leveling a glare at them, Megatron said, “What do you both want?”

“Get over here.” The one with only an energon prod reached into her subspace and fished out a pair of stasis cuffs.

Eyeing the cuffs, Megatron vented hot air from his olfactory receptors but didn’t move. “Not until you both tell me what this is all about.”

“You’re being put back into solitary confinement,” the one with the energon cube said as they lifted the cell door and rushed in, slapping the stasis cuffs on him and managing to get him to stand on his pedes. “And your execution date has been postponed for the time being.”

That got the Decepticon warlord’s attention. He whirled around and glared at the guard. “And why is that? Wouldn’t the Autobots wish to rid themselves of me at the earliest possible opportunity?”

“We all want you offline,” the femme said as she led them out of the cell and down the hallway, speaking over the shouts of adulation for the warmongerer. “But the order came from Ultra Magnus himself. We’re to stall your date of execution due to his carrying cycle.”

Megatron made a disgusted noise deep in his vocalizer. Typical of the Autobots to throw wrenches in his plans, even if said plan was his last one. “Why would his carrying cycle have an effect on my date of execution?”

“There’s a _very_ good chance that executing you will kill the sparkling that you and Ultra Magnus created, and in turn a pretty good chance that he’ll also go offline.” The guard shoved the cube of energon at him, making him take it in one of his servos. “So we’re keeping you alive ‘til we know for sure, or at least we were all told.”

Lugnut’s voice rumbled out from his cell. “The accursed Autobots! Their Magnus did this to hold the sparkling over the helm of our great and glorious Megatron and the rest of the Decepticons!”

“Oh _hush_ ,” the femme said as she poked the prod through a gap between bars and shocked Lugnut. “He didn’t do this for slag.”

The mech snickered. “He just did it to mess around with ol’ Megatron here.”

Megatron tuned the both of them out as they walked out of the wing that held the most fearsome of the Decepticons and led him back into the same cell that everything had happened in one instant.

He watched them make sure his weapons systems were still inert, watched them lock him in and walk away.

After a while of staring out of the cell, Megatron held his helm in his servos and sighed. Death would have to wait another while before they could meet.


	12. It's Just an Empty Place

Warmth bloomed in his spark again before winking out as quickly as it had come.

Red Alert and Ratchet could try and tell him otherwise, but he believed that the sparkling was at least gaining some sense of self and dare he say, becoming aware of at least him. Ultra stroked the still-flat surface of his middle, having hoped that there would be some sort of a sign of the sparkling that would be easily discernible, but he found himself with his hopes a little dashed.

For now it was still so early, he had to remind himself. The sparkling was there.

The day was young, the sun not having risen just yet. There was a smattering of light rays on the horizon that promised that the sun would definitely rise.

He hadn’t realized how much personal possessions he’d accumulated over the millenia that he’d served as the Autobot Commander until the past decacycle, when he’d started on the task of packing up the entirety of his known life into containers and storage bins. Most of it had been whisked away to the small abode that had been bought on Powered Convoy’s salary eons ago in anticipation of him actually being able to use it.

However, death had come for him before that scenario could have come to fruition, so Ultra was going to be the first to take up residence. Contractors who could be spared in the aftermath of a devastating war had been sent to make sure that the long-empty home was up and running for occupancy. Personally he hadn’t seen it yet, but he had been told there was just enough room for him and a growing sparkling.

In the end, that was all that mattered.

Ultra sat up and looked around at his now emptied berthroom. He heaved a great sigh, and then got up from the berth.

Before he left for his final time, he would look out the windows at the skyline of Iacon. It would be the last time he could see the tall, glinting edifices from this elevation.

Iacon would be left behind and a faraway memory where he was going.

He walked into the common room. The only thing left there was the long seat, a small side table, and a mirror that he looked into to see the stellar cycles that had gone by etched on his face. When he looked out the window of the common room, the sun had risen a few micrometers.

Ultra ran the tips of his digits along the wall, dipping them into the seams where the walls met another and where repairs had been done before. He would miss the dark grey hues and dark blue undertones that were always there.

The place was empty and waiting for a new Magnus to occupy it. Ultra wondered how Optimus would decorate the place and make it his own.

Before he could lose track of time remembering everything that had occurred in this space over the past millenia, Ultra backed up to the door that led into the main little hallway so he wouldn’t turn his back to the place he’d called his sanctuary.

When he walked into his office, it was just as barren, left with only the standard desk and seats. Even though he’d gone through the drawers multiple times before and had made certain that there was nothing left behind that he didn’t particularly want to leave behind for Optimus, he still dug through them.

As expected, the only thing there was a small datapad he’d left behind with a note for Optimus, welcoming him to the position and giving him advice that he’d wished Powered Convoy had been able to give him.

A knock came at the door and the two bots he was guaranteed to see each solar cycle walked in.

“How are you feeling today, Ultra?”

Ultra sat back down behind the desk, knowing full well it would be the last time he’d do so. He suddenly became aware of the slight queasiness deep in his tanks. “The nausea comes and goes in phases. It was particularly bad a few solar cycles ago but I had nothing yester-cycle nor today. Yet, at least.”

“It’s a small victory so far,” Red Alert said, giving him a gentle smile as she placed a datapad on the surface of the desk. “From what we’ve read the purging will go away, eventually.”

The Magnus arched an optic ridge. “Define “eventually.””

Ratchet made a snorting noise. “Probably ‘bout a third to halfway into carrying.”

He didn’t bother trying to hide the pained expression that came across his faceplates. Ultra sighed heavily. “At least it won’t be the entire duration.”

Ratchet looked a little smug, but Red gave him a nudge and then stepped behind the desk with a scanning wand in servo. “Sit up,” she patted Ultra’s shoulder struts and arms, “and let me have a look at you and the sparkling.”

Squaring his shoulder struts and moving his arms out of the way, he watched Red Alert and Ratchet work around him, murmuring amongst themselves as they scanned and took notes and compared them to notes from mechs and femmes long gone.

“Spark rate is within normal parameters for a mech of your build. The bitlet…”

The pause in Red Alert’s voice made Ultra worry. He moved his servo to cover his middle.

“What about the sparkling?” he asked with a very slight hint of reproach. The worst possible outcomes all came to his processor - the sparkling was severely ill, the sparkling would possibly go offline, or he hadn’t been carrying at all and this was a very twisted, strange dream.

“The bitlet is fine, Ultra. We were speaking to one another and making sure that we got the proper readings and it was just a poorly timed pause.”

Red Alert’s assurance made him relax. He moved his servo from his midsection and sighed heavily. However, the thought of being without the sparkling triggered something he didn’t know was there.

Here he was - his last time being in this office, being seen for the last time as the Magnus and Autobot Commander of Cybertron. In a few short cycles he would be handing over the titles and responsibilities to someone else, and he would bow out from the public’s view for the rest of his lifecycle.

The sparkling was one of the few reasons he was doing this. Without them, there was little reason for him to continue.

No, there was no reason for him to continue.

A servo waved in front of his optics and he suddenly came to, blinking his optics.

“Are you alright?”

He looked at Red Alert and blinked, then looked at both medics as he got his words together. “I’ve decided that if the sparkling does not survive Megatron’s execution,” he began slowly, “I want the both of you to look into a way to take me offline with them.”

The reaction was immediate as both Ratchet and Red Alert exchanged alarmed glances, and he could feel the spike in tension and surprise in their electromagnetic fields.

“Ultra,” Red Alert said with a tinge of wariness in her voice, “please don’t make any rash decisions. There’s no guarantee, even now, that he’ll be executed at this point. And we _will_ find a way for this to go off without a hitch, without putting you or the sparkling in any danger.”

“I trust that the both of you will do everything that you can do make sure of that,” Ultra replied softly, optics dimming. “But I have to make preparations in the event that the worst comes to pass.”

“We’re not going to do it, Ultra Magnus,” Ratchet finally said defiantly, the medic’s own optics flaring. “We’re not gonna be responsible for taking you offline.”

Anger flared in Ultra’s optics and spark. He curled his servos into fists and hung them at his sides, venting harshly. “Either way this discussion goes, I refuse to continue on if I can’t take care of my sparkling.”

Red Alert closed her servos into fists - one of the very few times Ultra had ever seen her do that - and she closed her optics and in-vented heavily. He could see the control she was trying to exert over herself, bringing her emotions under check.

“Ultra,” she whispered, “we’ve been friends for millenia. I’ve seen you through the worst of your times and I’ve seen you at your best. I was honored to be brought on as the Magnus’s primary care physician. Do you remember the oath I took when that happened?”

Ultra did. It had been so long ago, and the words he’d heard her say were all a blur in his memory. He simply stared at her and gave a minute shake of his helm.

“I swore that I would do _everything_ in my power to keep you _online_ , Ultra. That is what I’ve done this entire time, and I’m not going to be the cause of you going offline. I would be violating my oath.” Red Alert reopened her optics, and the expression on her faceplates went from one of anger and rage to one of pleading. “Please don’t make us do this, Ultra.”

Ratchet made a soft grunting noise from where he stood by his fellow medic. “We won’t be able to keep functionin’ with ourselves.”

The three older bots sat and stood in a tense silence for a long period of time. Ultra stared down at the surface of the desk, looking at the faint reflections of the two medics in front of him.

“It is also unethical to keep a living being alive when the best form of mercy that can be shown to them is to be put out of their abject, stated misery,” Ultra said quietly, looking up and into the optics of both medics. “They have to want it. I know that is part of the medic oath.”

Red Alert and Ratchet both looked haunted.

“If it makes this decision on your sparks any easier, if that time does come to pass…” Ultra stopped for a moment and tapped his digits on the surface of his desk, formulating the rest of his sentence before continuing, “simply say that my spark couldn’t handle the trauma, and it was best that I be put out of my misery. I don’t see myself surviving for very long on my own if the worst does happen.”

“Sir-”

“Magnus-”

Ultra held a servo up, ordering them both to a stop. “That’s my last standing order as Magnus, you two. I will not outlive my own sparkling if I have any say over it.”

Without further say, Ultra turned and left the office for the last time, leaving both medics behind to ponder.

.-.-.

Logically, Optimus knew the ceremony had been short, but it felt like it had taken eons to get through. His joints ached and popped from having to sit for that extent of time.

Now the optics and attention were all on him. Optimus was uncomfortable with it, and he toyed with the edge of the long cape that was slung over his shoulder struts.

If anything, he was grateful that his predecessor had been there to take some of the attention off of him. He’d seen almost everybot’s optics flicker in Ultra Magnus’s direction, as if expecting something out of him other than handing the Magnus Hammer over to the wholly young Prime on the other side of the dais.

Prime. Now Magnus. It would take a long time for him to get used to the title of Magnus following his designation.

After the confirmation ceremony, Ultra had retreated to closed chambers while Optimus was left alone, guarded only by Jazz and Bumblebee as they fended off opportunistic mechs and femmes who wanted favor with him.

He wondered if this was the exact same thing Ultra had suffered when he’d been made Magnus all those stellar cycles prior.

“Bossbot, you here?”

Optimus blinked his optics and then remembered where he was - at the reception for the Elite Guard, honoring their new Commander. Bumblebee waved a servo in front of his optics again. Optimus raised his servo and gently grabbed the yellow minibot’s arm, moving it down. “I’m here, Bumblebee.”

“Don’t look like you’re here in processor,” Jazz said, his arms crossed over his chassis. Though few had ever seen Jazz’s optics under the visor (Optimus hadn’t been counted among the lucky few as of yet), the newly confirmed Magnus knew that Jazz was keeping a sharp optic on the crowd around him.

Softly clearing his vocalizer, Optimus stammered a bit before replying, “I am, just not entirely, Jazz.”

“You should pay more attention, boss bot! Everyone’s coming up to see you! Aren’t you excited?”

Optimus stared at Bumblebee with a confused expression on his faceplates before he remembered that it was, indeed, Bumblebee that was speaking to him.

“I’m really not. I’d rather…” Optimus trailed off and fidgeted where he stood, twisting the staff of the Hammer in his servos. “I’d rather be alone, but it won’t look good.”

“Yeah, you can be alone any other time!”

Optimus gave a roll of his optics and was then approached by someone he vaguely knew.

“Hey there Nitro, what’s goin’ on?”

The femme didn’t acknowledge that Jazz had spoken, instead looking harshly at the newly elected Magnus. “I’m here to ask something of you.”

The brashness surprised Optimus a little bit. He blinked and took a minute step back. “I - I’m sorry, I don’t know what can be done about it.” Upon realizing how he’d sounded, he cleared his vocalizer and said, “But let me hear it.”

Nitro let out a heated ex-vent and tilted her helm at him. “Our last Magnus dropped the lob-ball by reversing Megatron’s death sentence. I want to know what your stance on executing that Decepticon will be.”

That was a question he hadn’t been prepared to receive just yet, given that the announcement of the reversal of the execution order hadn’t been made entirely public _just_ yet. As far as Optimus knew, it was known only to the higher-ups of the Elite Guard, and the prison guards at Trypticon who watched over the captive Decepticons.

“That’s something I’m going to have to discuss with the High Council. But I’m wondering, how did you get access to that information?”

“Sentinel Prime and I had a talk and he told me,” Nitro replied, her arms over her chassis, though unlike Jazz’s relatively lax posture, hers was rather combative. “As someone who lost her creators at the onset of the war, at Megatron’s servos… I hope you do better than Ultra Magnus did.”

Optimus watched the Major walk off, arms still crossed over her chassis.

“What was that about?” Bumblebee asked, and then Optimus remembered that the chatterbox was still present.

Transferring the staff of the Hammer to his other servo, Optimus gave Bumblebee a pointed look. “This stays here. I don’t want you telling anyone what you heard here before it gets released.”

A moment later, the low level of chatter that had permeated the room gave way to complete silence.

A moment after that, Optimus realized that Ultra Magnus had made an appearance at his side.

.-.-.

The furor over the heritage of his bitlet had died down considerably, he’d been told.

He was grateful at the least that the news about him overturning Megatron’s death sentence hadn’t reached the general public and the lower-ranked Elites. Otherwise, he would have booked it away to his new home, but he wanted to give his best to Optimus Magnus before he could do that.

Magnus - it was odd to use that title to address someone else when he himself still held the title as an honorary position.

Most optics in the room watched him, rapt at attention as he approached Optimus and placed a servo on the new Magnus’s shoulder strut.

“I’ve left the Magnus quarters cleaned for you,” he said in a low voice. “And there’s something for you in the main drawer of the desk. Make sure you read it.”

Optimus smiled and nodded.

A scoff then echoed in the room, grabbing everybot’s attention. Ultra knew whom it was before the voice began to speak, the words directed at him. “I would hope that whatever it is you left Optimus Magnus is overturning your stupid decision, Ultra.”

In his peripheral vision Ultra saw Jazz immediately straighten his posture and put his arms to his sides. “Last I checked Sentinel, he’s got a title he still goes by.”

“Shut it, Major.”

There was a noise of questioning, and then someone in the crowd asked, “What decision?”

“Oh, didn’t anyone hear?” Sentinel Prime feigned a look of thought before a slag-eating expression crossed his faceplates. “Oh, right, it was being held secret until Ultra could make sure he was away from us all.”

“Hear what?” someone with the badge rank of Minor asked out loud.

Sentinel got that smirk on his faceplates that he’d only seen out of the corner of his optics before - it was always gone before Ultra could turn to face him. “He ordered that Megatron’s execution be overturned.”

A twitter of conversation, mostly of surprise, went through the assembled crowd. Ultra closed his optics and begged that Primus give him patience before he reopened them.

“Imagine that, will you? He’s letting Megatron live, while so many other Autobots couldn’t live thanks to all those Decepticons that still function, locked up in Trypticon. And it’s all because of that sparkling, isn’t it?”

Every optic in the room turned to Ultra. He hated the attention, but he used the many millenia of experience at hiding his emotions to do exactly that. He simply grit his jaw and stared at Sentinel.

Optimus opened up a private communication link to his predecessor. ::Ratchet told me that we shouldn’t put you into any stressful situations::

::I’ll be fine for now, Optimus:: Ultra replied.

“It’ll go down as the first sparkling born on Cybertron since Powered Convoy decided that we should cease all forms of creation barring use of the AllSpark. If you ask me, we’re better off that that half-Decepticon go offline and stop tainting the universe with its own existence.”

Ultra lifted his helm a minute fraction and didn’t bother hiding the fire that surged in his optics. Before anyone could react, he had snatched Stormbringer from the newly titled Optimus Magnus and swung the face of the Hammer in the direction of the only Prime in the room, sending Sentinel flying into the nearest wall with a loud crashing noise.

A chorus of horrified gasps went around the room at Ultra Magnus’s first ever display of non-stoicism. He paid them no attention as he purposefully walked over to the heap of blue-and-orange Prime that lay crumpled on the floor, the Hammer in his servo. Sentinel made a pathetic little noise as he got his bearings, and then his beady blue optics finally widened in recognition of the mech before him, and comprehension of what he’d just done.

The former Magnus knew that he could continue pounding the Prime’s helm in with Stormbringer and no one would blame him (nor care, if he were to be quite honest). However, he decided that he would take the higher road after sinking to such a low level, and bent his arm and drew the Hammer to his side, away from Sentinel.

“Any insult against myself, my characteristics,” he said in a low voice tinged with fury, “and any criticisms that history may decide to level at me when reflecting upon the job I did, I can handle. I’m perfectly aware of my own faults after being alive and functioning for this long. However, any insult against my sparkling, who hasn’t formed their own conscience as of yet, will not be tolerated.”

Ultra became aware of movement somewhere to his side and the sound of a heavy cloth dragging partially on the floor. Optimus appeared at his side from the aisle that the Elites had created for him and gently touched Ultra’s arm with his digits, a beckon for the Magnus Hammer. Tightening his digits around the handle of the staff for a moment, he sighed and handed it back to the young Magnus.

“My sparkling might be a half-Decepticon, but you forget that they are also half an Autobot. They are beginning their life cycle with a clean slate and in a world that isn’t torn with war as of yet, which is something more than most, if not all of us, can claim.” He twisted his lipplates into a disappointed and disapproving half-frown. “Don’t blame them for the sins of their creators.”

Sentinel merely stared at him, something resembling fear in his beady optics.

“Before I head off, I just want to let you know, Sentinel, that I had full faith in you prior to my near-deactivation. It’s merely a shame that it took that, and you nearly destroying Cybertron over my nearly offlined frame, for me to realize that you should never have been put into a position of power,” he said quietly. “If you couldn’t improve under my leadership,” he looked at Optimus, “I hope that you can improve under Optimus.”

After a moment of letting his statement sink in, Ultra turned his frame around, placed a heavy and comforting servo on Optimus’s shoulder strut, and then took on his vehicular mode. He watched as everyone in the chambers made a path for him before he drove off and away, watching Fortress Maximus disappear from his backwards-facing sensors.


	13. They Mess with My Head

He was alone, relatively speaking.

Ultra had driven most of the way to the home. When the silhouette of it had come over the horizon, he’d taken on his bipedal mode and walked the rest of the way, getting closer to his new home as Cybertron’s sun set and its two moons hung in the sky.

Contrary to the whispers he’d heard (mostly from a sourball Sentinel Prime) the place wasn’t big or opulent at all. Sure, it was a little bigger than the Magnus quarters that were at Fortress Maximus, but that was including the space that an extra berthroom took up. 

When he reached it, he ascended the steps up front and entered the double doors for the very first time.

The place was empty, save for some sparse bits of furnishings and some containers scattered around the rooms. He closed his optics, closed the doors behind himself, and then reopened his optics.

“Welcome home,” he said in a quiet voice, speaking to himself and to the bitlet that he knew couldn’t hear nor understand what he was saying.

_ It’s just you and I now, truly. _

It was surreal, thinking that Powered Convoy had bought and redesigned this place to his specifications. He remembered how his predecessor had been so looking forward to being able to retire and hole himself up, seclude himself in the remote mountain range on the other side of Cybertron. He remembered fondly how Powered Convoy had talked about how he would care for a large garden, sit outside and watch the stars in peace, worry about nothing after so long of worry taking over his life cycle.

Battle had claimed him before any of those little plans that Powered Convoy had been so excited about could have come to pass.

Powered Convoy should have been here. Not him. He should have resigned his position and gone somewhere else in another remote area of Cybertron, two Magni scattered across the planet.

He wondered what Powered Convoy would have thought about his favorite of his then-Primes becoming the first to take residence in what he been set aside for him, specifically. Then he wondered what Powered Convoy would have thought about the circumstances that had led him here.

Ultra’s spark sank. For the first time in a very, very long time, he found himself emotionally gutted over his predecessor’s passing.

So much time had passed that he’d been able to think of the older mech without feeling that pang of loss in his spark. 

Part of him hoped that the sparkling would like to hear more about the only figure he’d ever seen as a sort of creator. It would be a long time before that would happen, he knew.

For the first time since discovering the news that he was sparked, he was able to devote his entire processor to thinking about the bitlet without duty intruding. He stroked the flat surface of his belly, imagining the sparkling growing within running about in the hallways and rooms, giggling like the bitlet in his dreams as they hid from him in games of hide-and-seek. Right now, the place was cold and clinical like the medical bays of Fort Max, but over time he would get to make the place a home for both of them.

The view directly outside his berthroom’s window was beautiful, but it was unmatched by the majesty that was the view of the Manganese Mountains on the back patio. Ultra leaned against the fencing that surrounded the patio and watched the sun set behind the mountains.

He could see himself never tiring of this view, one that would allow him to get lost in his many thoughts. Ultra closed his optics and imagined spreading out on the ground below the back patio with his bitlet, pointing to the stars and teaching them everything he knew about the night sky and the planets and the universe. He imagined their optics widening in wonder and amazement, and the questions upon questions that he knew they would ask about everything.

As beautiful as the view was, he knew he had to get back inside and go about unloading the containers. Giving the stars and the moons a wistful glance, he turned around and went back inside to the dark house.

When he walked back inside, it was like the gravity of the situation hit him over again. He sat down on the long seat that had been unceremoniously left in the very center of the sitting room, staring out a window. So many things that needed to be unpacked, every single thing in the boxes and containers bearing the weight of the universe. 

He grabbed the nearest container and found with it the box of datapads that Ratchet and Red Alert had given him regarding how to properly grow and care for a sparkling.

Of everything he’d brought over, that box was the most important. He picked it up and brought it into the berthroom that had been designated for him, laid down on the flat slab of metal, and curled around the box.

.-.-.

Pings in his processor roused him from a recharge cycle he hadn’t been aware that he’d fallen into. Blinking his optics against the rising sun, he made a small noise of malcontent at waking up so early, and answered the ping.

::Arcee and Sari and I are on our way, Ultra::

Ultra blinked, and then remembered that Red Alert and Ratchet were going to be taking turns every other solar cycle checking up on him and the sparkling. He groaned as he sat up, holding his helm in a servo and trying to fight off the nausea that decided to rear its ugly helm at that moment. He answered after he’d fought it down. ::How far away are you?::

Arcee answered for her mate this time. ::We’re approaching now::

Ultra forced himself out of the berth and made his way over to the front door, opening it and seeing the sunlight shining on the two bots and the small organic approaching. He half-grinned and stood out on the porch, watching as the three got closer and closer.

When Ratchet was in better view, he saw the cantankerous medic increase his speed, taking on his bipedal mode and jogging his way up the porch.

The first sentence out of Ultra’s mouth was, “Everything is still in boxes, so I apologize for the mess.”

Ratchet gave him a look. “My concern is ‘bout you and the sparklin’, so I don’t have a problem unless it’s how Bulkhead and Bumblebee kept their quarters on Earth.”

“May I ask what state it was in?”

Pictures that Ratchet sent over the communication link made Ultra cringe at the mess. “I don’t intend to make a mess anywhere of that caliber.”

Arcee and Sari chose that time to step up onto the porch, and the techno organic immediately waved. “Hi, remember me?”

How could he not. Ultra tilted her helm at her and nodded as he let them in.

Sari immediately flew in and stopped mid-air, directly in the center of the common room. “Wow,” she said, gesturing at the lack of anything in the room other than the boxes and the long seat, “who died in here?” Before anyone could say anything, she turned and lifted her visor and facemask. “So, what does “sparked” mean? I’ve been hearing it a lot and a lot of other bots are talking about it.”

Ultra furrowed his optic ridges and then looked over at the two, much-older bots. “Ratchet nor Arcee have told you?”

Sari shook her head, and Ultra found himself at a relative loss over what to tell the small girl. He placed a servo over his optics and racked his processor something to say.

Ratchet came to his rescue. “We’ll tell you ‘bout it later on, Sari. Right now I’ve got an exam to do.”

Ultra, grateful for the save so he didn’t have to immediately explain something that might be so foreign to Sari, sat down on the long seat and placed the palms of his servos on his knee joints. Arcee guided Sari to a distance to give Ratchet and Ultra some space as Ratchet pulled out the various medical tools needed for successful examination and proceeded.

Watching the scanning wand wave over his lower midsection, Ultra tried not to put his servo there, knowing it would interfere with the examination and the results of it.

He kept needing to remind himself that this was indeed real, and over again he kept having to tell himself that it was real.

“Hmm, gotten a lil’ brighter. Growing stronger by the solar cycle.”

The bit of news gladdened his own spark. Fear was still present in his processor that he probably wouldn’t be able to safely carry to term, but this served to soothe it a small bit.

“As for you,” Ratchet turned a critical optic to him, “we need to up your energon rations.”

After such a long time of forgetting to refuel in a timely manner, Ultra still struggled out of habit to do exactly that. He closed his optics and pinched his nasal ridge between two digits. “What’s going on now?”

“You were startin’ to replenish your energon reserves and repair the casin’ ‘round your spark, but it’s starting to get eaten away again.”

Ultra heaved a sigh.

“Arcee,” Ratchet pulled the scanning wand away and looked at the femme, “I’m gonna need your help mixin’ up some rations.”

She tilted her helm at him and gave him a slightly accusing look. “You need my calculation skills, don’t you?”

Ratchet smirked and winked at her. “That’s why I brought you here.”

Arcee unfolded her arms. “Do you have somewhere where we can mix something up?” she asked, the question pointed at Ultra, who simply waved to a small room on the side and mumbled something about a table that he’d had brought there.

The medic and the instructor hadn’t been gone for even a nanoklik when Sari descended from her mid-air place near the ceiling and plopped herself next to the bot. “So what’s this sparked thing, then?”

Ultra stared at the small human-Cybertronian hybrid, pondering his words over in his helm. “Ratchet and Red Alert would really be the best options regarding informing you of this entire process.”

Sari stuck a lower lip out. “C’mon, Ratchet’s gonna say he’s too tired to tell me anything and, well,” she swung her legs, “I don’t know Red Alert well enough.”

Sighing, Ultra wiped the back of a servo across his forehelm. “I’ve a vague idea of how humans reproduce. Given that you are half of us as well, I suppose I can try my best,” he said quietly. “Being sparked means that,” he paused for a moment, thinking his words over, “I’m carrying a Cybertronian young.”

Blue eyes shifted to give his frame a once-over. “I don’t  _ see  _ you carrying one, what do you…” the technorganic trailed off, and Ultra could see the workings in Sari’s head as she tried to wrap her mind around what he had told her, trying to connect the dots. Then her eyes widened and she stared at him.

“Oh my God,” she said as if she’d finally seen sunlight for the first time, “you’re  _ pregnant _ .”

Given the context, he figured that that was what the word that the humans used to refer to their carrying cycles. He didn’t particularly care for it though. He made a face and a small noise of uncertainty before clarifying, “The word we used is “sparked,” Sari. I would like it if you could stick to that terminology.”

Sari shrugged one shoulder. “Sorry, it’s just what I’m used to.” The girl swung her legs in the air. “So, what’s it called?”

“Hmm?”

“The “Cybertronian young,”” she stated, putting air quotes around those two words. What do you call them?” Sari tilted her head at him, blinking her large eyes. “We call ours babies.”

“Cybertronian young are referred to as sparklings. Other terms used include bitlet and newspark. I tend to refer to mine as a sparkling.” Ultra quirked a half-smile at her. “I find it rolls off the glossa a little nicer.”

At that moment, Ratchet and Arcee rounded the corner, tray of energon cubes in the short medic’s servos. “Stop pesterin’ him Sari. We’ll give you some readin’ material ‘bout sparklin’s.”

“Aww,” Sari pouted, but said nothing more as she flopped back onto the oversized seat.

“And,” Ratchet placed the tray of energon cubes on a small table that Arcee had dragged out, “the grown bots need to talk.”

“I’m grown!”

“Sari, you’re all of twelve stellar cycles.”

“I’m thirteen!”

“Even in human timelines, that’s nowhere near old enough,” Arcee interjected. She gestured for the doors leading outside. “There’s a place to sit outside and look at the mountains. We’ll let you know when to come back in.”

Sari looked like she wanted to continue protesting, but she crossed her arms over her chassis and took her time flying off. Once she had set herself outside, looking at the mountain range, Ratchet turned to Ultra.

The former Magnus was quick to ask, unease in his tanks, “Is this regarding Optimus?”

Ratchet looked a little taken aback before he composed himself. “No, Optimus is settlin’ in okay for now. He’s been hiding in his quarters.”

That didn’t sound very good. “Does that mean that Optimus has been neglecting-”

“Nah, he’s doing his job. He’s just a lil’ terrified of facing ‘bots right now.”

“May I ask why?” Then the recollection of the prior solar cycle came to his processor. “Did Sentinel’s revelation at Optimus’s reception ceremony…” Ultra trailed off, hoping that Ratchet would have understood what he was getting it. 

The medic knew, as he sighed and nodded. “That’s what I came to talk to you ‘bout, Ultra.” He looked over at Arcee and made a motion with his helm that Ultra took as a gesture for the former instructor to start off.

“Alpha Trion told Red Alert and Ratchet, who in turn informed me, that when you signed the datapads affirming your decision to resign from the Magnusship you waived your right to armed guard,” Arcee started off, voice quiet and gentle.

Nodding once, Ultra replied with, “I did, yes.”

Ratchet took no time in jumping to the main point. “You need to be under armed guard now, Ultra. The Grid’s been overwhelmed with calls for action to be taken regardin’ you havin’ commuted Megatron’s sentence to prison life for now. Lots of petitions, protests-”

A scoff from Ultra Magnus’s end cut Ratchet off. “That happens every…” Ultra paused a moment, realized his mistake in verbiage, and then corrected himself. “That  _ happened _ with every single decision I made while in office. What makes this so different, despite the fact that I won’t have much of a servo in addressing it?”

“Ultra Magnus,” Arcee said quietly, “this is different because now the life of your sparkling is at stake.”

Ultra looked at Arcee and then blinked his optics, trying to process what she had said. “I’m sorry?”

Ratchet sighed and crossed his arms over his chassis. “Monitors for the Grid have been sayin’ that there’s been an uptick in calls for your sparklin’ to go offline.”

Ultra felt rage in the core of his spark. “Sentinel said something more, didn’t he?”

“He released the full text of your message to the higher-up bots in the Elite Guard where you said that due to the possibility that your sparkling could be irreparably harmed by Megatron goin’ offline. Lot of bots now saying to…” Ratchet twisted his lipplates and then sighed. “Not gonna say it again.”

Curling his servos into fists, Ultra fought back his rage and the tears that were threatening to spring from the corners of his optics.

He had yet to go into emergence and deliver this sparkling, and already they were far more loathed than he was. It was a feat that he normally would have been very glad to foist onto someone else, but not when that someone else was his sparkling, his little sparkling that he wanted so much.

The reality of these circumstances began to hit him. No matter how much he put himself in the line of fire, there would be those that would try to lean around him and aim for the one innocent being in all of this.

“It was  _ my  _ mistake,” he half-hissed, half-whispered, his voice breaking as he sat back down on the long seat. “It was my mistake alone for giving into that blasted Decepticon’s attempt at seduction.”

“It doesn’t matter to them,” Arcee said in the gentlest voice she could muster. “All they see is that the millions of Autobots that offlined during the war aren’t getting the justice they’re due, and for that they’re blaming your sparkling. To them, Megatron going offline is more necessary than making sure that our already dwindled species continues.”

Ultra closed his optics and it took all of his willpower to not break down crying in that instant. He opened and closed his servos over and over again, counting to twenty, then to thirty, to calm himself down. Taking a deep in-vent, he opened his servos and parsed his words carefully. “My sparkling is innocent of the charges that everyone wants to bring against them.” His voice then lowered to a broken whisper. “I merely want to give my sparkling a chance. I don’t believe I’m in the wrong for wanting that.”

Silence fell over the three bots. The only sound they could hear was that of Sari being outside, talking to herself and complaining about being left out.

“You have to contact Optimus and let him know you want to get an armored guard, Ultra,” Ratchet broke the silence. “Even if it’s just for the rest of your carryin’ cycle.”

Mulling the decision over in his helm, Ultra then nodded. “I will do so later on, after I get my processor in order.” He rubbed the sides of his helm with his pointer and middle digits on each servo. “Thank you for the information. I would have intended on staying away from the Grid for a while.”

“All we can do for you. ‘Cee,” Ratchet looked at the femme and sighed, “let’s grab Sari and leave Ultra alone. Did what we came here for.”

“Of course.” Arcee looked at Ultra and gave him a small smile, patting him gently on an oversized shoulder strut.

Through his faint haze, he could hear the two bots walk through the back doors and close them, say a few words to Sari, and then the engines of their vehicular modes driving off.

The next time Ultra looked up, half the solar cycle had passed, the sun was in a position where it was closer to setting than it was to rising. He stood up and left the containers unboxed for the second solar cycle in a row, secluding himself in his dark quarters with the shades drawn on the windows to give his frame the illusion of night.

Ultra curled into himself, processing the information he’d been given, that others wanted what had yet to come to be gone.

“I’m not going to let them bring you any harm,” he murmured. He swore the bitlet could at least understand that - he felt them trying to reach out for him momentarily, and before he could respond in kind, the sensation faded. “This I promise you.”


	14. No Space Among the Clouds

_ The thudding of his footfalls echoed in his audio receptors as he ran for his life, pursued by a looming form that exuded hostility and vengeance. His front was heavy, middle not grossly swollen but just enough so that he forfeited the ability to take on his vehicular mode and flee at a much faster rate that he could at this point in time. _

_ The scariest part of it wasn’t that the anger that the form held onto wasn’t aimed at him. _

_ It would have been expected that it be aimed at him. _

_ His intakes felt like they were one inhalation away from short-circuiting and collapsing, but he continued to somehow persevere against all odds, just as he’d done for most of his lifecycle. _

_ Maybe he would get away, just as he had previously. He held onto that glimmer of hope as he heard the form stop advancing towards him. _

_ Maybe... _

_ A clawed servo wrapping around his thick ankle shut down that hope, yanking him down. He fell to his front, and the sparkling sent an immediate scream of pain that only he could feel and hear. Before he could cry and apologize, the pain was transferred to his frame, spreading throughout his body. Whatever the form was held him down, sharp digits poking through the seams of his armor into his protoform, drawing energon that trickled out from between armor plating. _

_ It was then that he noticed the glint of a sharpened blade in the other sero. _

_ He screamed like he’d never screamed before as the blade punctured the mesh of his protoform, ripping right down his belly. The sparkling’s fear was now tantamount to his, doubling the stress on his spark that he couldn’t even try to calm himself or the bitlet down. _

_ If whatever was done to him didn’t kill him outright, the stress on his spark would. _

_ He was rendered immobile as the servo shoved itself into the gaping wound and pulled a wet mass out. Ultra felt everything, and he shuddered and gasped at the movement within that wasn’t from the bitlet. _

_ The underdeveloped frame of the sparkling was shoved into his faceplates, and he screamed in all sorts of agony as the large digits gripping onto its helm began to curl in, squeezing- _

And then Ultra woke up, gasping and clutching the edges of the berth, optics wide as he struggled to get his bearings and make certain that he and the sparkling were perfectly fine. The moons of Cybertron were visible through the window of his berthroom, giving him something calming to focus on as he got it through his helm that he and the sparkling were safe.

After he’d gotten his spark rate to a better, lower pulse, he sighed and stroked the faintly-there curve of his middle, sending soft pulses of comfort and reassurance that he was there to the bitlet. The warmth in his spark returned, the bitlet communicating with him rudimentarily.

Eight decacycles had passed since that conversation with Ratchet and Arcee about obtaining permission to have armed guard. Each time Ratchet or Red Alert had come by to check on him and the bitlet, they said nothing, but it was clear in their expressions and the way they conducted themselves that they were disappointed that he’d yet to contact Optimus.

In that time Ultra had kept himself busy by making the house a home, unpacking the boxes and making small repairs that had been overlooked. It wasn’t until he’d gotten down to his knees and tried to lie on his front to fix up a blotch on the floor that he’d realized that the sparkling had now started to outgrow the straight-lined confines of his body.

It made his state all the more real. This wasn’t some strange, long dream that he would wake up from to see that he was still in Fort Max, in the position of Magnus, and not carrying.

Quite frankly, that would have been the most devastating of scenarios. It was likely the carrying cycle and the surges of emotion that came with it doing their dirty work on him, but deep down in his spark there was nothing more that he wanted than to have this sparkling.

The nightmare had started fleetingly a few solar cycles after that talk. Over time until now, it had always gotten a nanoklik longer, the monster coming after him inching forward ever closer.

Tonight was the first time that he’d seen his sparkling go offline.

He would have to contact Optimus. There was no question about it.

Ultra placed his helm in his servos, a shaky sigh escaping his mouth. 

.-.-.

He’d been meaning to contact Ultra Magnus and ask how he’d dealt with certain issues that had arisen in his first few decacycles of being Magnus.

Namely, how he’d dealt with anything and everything regarding all the libel that Sentinel had been spreading about his predecessor. Had anyone spread libel about Powered Convoy when Ultra had become Magnus? If so, how did Ultra deal with it?

And the unceasing requests for his assistance and attention. Many mechs and femmes had thrown themselves at him metaphorically, enamored with the new Magnus who was also the recent hero of Cybertron, that had brought down and brought in the nefarious Decepticon leader. Then there were those that were demanding that he put Megatron to death immediately.

Those were the ones really trying his patience and giving him anxiety in one fell swoop.

Optimus threw the stylus he’d been using on the datapad across the office and pressed the palms of his servos against his optics. Messages from the High Council pinged him, but he shuffled them aside to read later. If prior experience was anything to go on, it was something that could wait once he’d gotten himself under control and finished signing all these datapads.

Perhaps he would need to have Ratchet come in and give him a dosage of relaxant, as he’d made a habit of doing over the past few solar cycles. The medic had given him a warning that he would cause himself some damage if he kept it up, to which Optimus usually just told him to do as he was told.

A new message then showed up in his inbox, and just as he was about to shuffle it away he noticed the name of the sender. Optimus then opened it.

_ I hope I have not caught you at a bad time, Optimus. I do need to talk with you at your earliest convenience. Please let me know when that is. _

_ -Ultra Magnus, former Autobot Commander of Cybertron _

Drumming his digits on the surface of his desk, Optimus composed a quick reply and then set up his video feed.

It didn’t take long for the call to come through and for Ultra Magnus’s visage to show up on the screen.

Both mechs regarded one another for a moment before breaking out into smiles.

“How has your retirement been treating you, sir?” Optimus said, first to break the silence. He saw Ultra Magnus shift uncomfortably in his seat, and that all told him what he needed to know. “Not well, I take it.”

His predecessor sighed and passed his servo over his face. “I’ve almost nothing to do. I enjoyed reading datapads when I was much younger, before I became the Magnus, but even that has begun to feel like a chore.”  

Optimus could only imagine what the monotony felt like. He himself enjoyed a brief respite from his duties every now and then, but having so much free time on your servos had to be processor-numbing. The young Magnus tapped his digits on the desk a moment, and then stopped. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Ultra Magnus looked like he was having an internal conflict, struggling, and that he was losing it. He closed his optics and bit down on his lower lipplate before reopening them. “Alpha Trion must have shown you, I’m sure, the forms that I signed regarding my resignation.”

Optimus nodded.

“There was a form I signed, forfeiting my right as a retired head of state to armed guard at all times.”

“You want armed guard.” Optimus smiled reassuringly at the older bot. “Jazz has been asking when he will be able to go and keep guard of you.”

A slightly befuddled look came over the Magnus’s faceplates. “Were you informed about this prior?”

“Ratchet had said a thing or two about it. Jazz also wants to give Bumblebee the full Elite Guard experience, so he’s eager to start guarding.”

“Oh.” The former Magnus thought about it, then gave a brief nod. “What will I have to do to finalize this?”

Optimus leaned back in the seat and thought on it, staring at the ceiling as he collected his thoughts. Then he shook his helm. “It’s for you and the sparkling. I’m just going to send them both out there.”

Ultra stared at the young Magnus and then let the corner of his lipplates twist up into a fleeting half-grin. “Sentinel will have a lot of things to say about this.”

Right. The one time he forgot about Sentinel. If only the entirety of his life cycle could have been like that. Making a quiet, discontented noise, he sighed. “He has a lot of things to say about a lot of things he doesn’t know about. But, I am now his Commanding Officer, so I can tell him that he’s full of hot air.” 

“If that’s the nicest thing you can say to him, you’re a far better bot than I could ever be.”

“I have a lot more I could tell him, sir. But, getting back onto topic, I will have Jazz and Bumblebee dispatched out in the next decacycle after I get the formalities in place and all. Do you think you’ll be okay until they can get out there?”

“I’ve survived this far without them.” Ultra sighed, but it was a bit of a different sigh than previous ones. “I can take another decacycle without guard.”

.-.-. 

Another cube of energon was shoved his way through a small window. Megatron blinked at it, wanting to see if he could muster the ability to not take it and not drink it.

His internal systems pinging that he was very low on fuel negated that, and he made a cross expression as he gave into his need and grabbed the energon cube. He swirled it around in the glass, watching to see if anything had been put in there, and upon finding it as fluidic as he expected he drank it one go.

Then he threw the energon cube across the cell, taking pleasure in the shattering sound it made as it cracked and split into many pieces, decorating the floor in his fury.

A few solar cycles prior was the date he’d heard tossed around that he would have been taken offline for his misdeeds against the universe at large. He wouldn’t have been around for this mockery that was being made of him if it weren’t for what he’d done.

Since the news had broken out that he had sired a sparkling on the former serving Magnus of Cybertron, he’d found himself regretting having come onto Ultra. What was the point in it, he asked himself every other nanoklik that wasn’t occupied with how much he loathed his current existence. There had been no point to it, other than to sate his millennia-long curiosity over how the Magnus would react to the come-on and perhaps, see how the Autobot performed in berth. 

His curiosity had killed him in more ways than one. 

He was angry. At himself, at Ultra for being so noble and beautiful and for giving in to his whims even that one instance, and for not letting him just  _ die _ like he was supposed to.

And he was angry at the sparkling. Logically he knew it wasn’t the sparkling’s fault - they had no say in their creation. But there was the simple fact that his execution had been stayed because of them, because Ultra just didn’t…

Megatron found that he didn’t exactly like the thought of Ultra terminating the sparkling, without at least letting him know. He blamed whatever it was that sparklings did to their sires for it.

The Decepticon laid down on the pathetic slab used as a berth and closed his optics, shutting out the light and letting himself try to dream. However, all that came to processor was memory of the intimate encounter with the old Magnus, his spark flaring and his vents heating at the all-too-visceral feeling of sliding his spike into the warm and wet valve that so readily accepted him, the vision of Ultra coming undone again with just his fingers and glossa.

He remembered thinking in that moment that Ultra had the most beautiful expression each time he’d crested into an overload, optics wide, mouth open, quiet moans turning into gasps that caught in his vocalizer.

A soft clicking noise echoed in the cell, and Megatron opened his optics to see that his interface housing had retracted its panel, allowing his spike to jut out into the chilled air.

Megatron tried his best to get it to go away, to stop reminding him of what he couldn’t have, but after a while had to admit defeat. Venting harshly, he knelt on the berth and grabbed his spike in one servo, rubbing back and forth and trying to stop his hips from pumping (he felt absolutely ridiculous, unable to keep his instincts from taking over), and trying to hold back his growls as thick, silver transfluid spilled onto the berth.

After coming down from his high, he realized he had no way to clean it up. Giving a defeated sigh, he sat back and waited for the next unfortunate guard to check on him.

.-.-.

“Ratchet, you finished looking over me a cycle ago.”

The medic made a defiant noise. “Yeah, and I’m not leavin’ ‘til the two young bots come to keep you company.”

Ultra sighed and turned his attention back to his datapad. “They aren’t keeping me company, Ratchet. They’re supposed to be guarding me.”

“Is that why you asked specifically for Jazz?”

“I didn’t. I meant to, but Jazz had gotten to request it before I did. Jazz and Bumblebee, I believe, will be arriving shortly.”

He didn’t miss the wicked grin that spread across Ratchet’s normally-grousing faceplates. Ultra near-whirled himself around to face the medic and shut the datapad off. “What is that for?”

“You’re going to get a kick out of the yellow bot.”

Ultra wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a warning or a simple advisement. He decided not to think on it further and take what he could get at this point in time. He sighed and then walked over to the wall with in-built shelves, filing the datapad back into its assigned place. “You do realize that I’m not fragile, and I can be left to my own devices for a period of time.”

“Mmph, you were left alone for all of five kliks and Shockwave managed to eviscerate you.”

Ultra gave the medic a harsh glare, letting him know that he was close to crossing a line, before he walked over to the sliding back doors and ventured onto the back patio, sitting on one of the seats and staring out at the Manganese Mountains. He placed a servo over the gentle curve of his middle, stroking the plating. Nighttime was falling, so stars were beginning to show their light through the darkness, and the moons were shining brilliantly, giving the sky an appearance of having white optics.

“This is one of the more beautiful sights you’ll ever see,” he said quietly, speaking directly to the bitlet. “There will be more, but this is the first I can show you.”

He imagined bringing the sparkling out to the back, cradling their little body against his chest as he brought them the stars arcing over the range of the mountains. His spark hoped that the bitlet would grow to have the same love of the stars that he had.

The sliding doors opened again and the medic lumbered out, grumbling to himself. “Sari’s getting Arcee to call me and ask when I’m comin’ back.”

“As I’ve said, you don’t have to stay here,” Ultra said with a slight tone of amusement. “You could go back and answer any questions that she has regarding sparklings.”

“Ugh, Primus don’t remind me. Every cycle, a new question, some that I don’t think she’s ready to learn about. She asked how you’d have gotten sparked and what Megatron had to do with it.”

The former Magnus made a face. He would rather not let Sari in on that information for as long as it could be done.

His thoughts then turned to Megatron. At one point before he’d left his office and titles behind, he’d been offered a chance to go to Trypticon to see the prisoners - which he had realized was code to go speak with Megatron. At the time he’d declined, but now as he thought on it, it would likely be one of the better things he could do.

All this time so far, he’d been thinking of the sparkling, then of himself. Megatron hadn’t been very much on his processor, until recently. He supposed it was the sparkling affecting him, as it so seemed.

Ultra was suddenly cut off on his train of thought by a strange movement from within. He tightened the servo resting over his middle into a fist and stared down, wanting the bitlet to move again. The sparkling obliged him, doing what felt like a half-sparked flip.

“I… did I just feel that?” he whispered, more to himself than to the other mech.

“Felt what?” came the other medic’s voice.

Ultra stared at Ratchet with widened optics. “Movement. They’re moving.”

Ratchet gave him a look, then pulled out a device that Ultra guessed from the looks of it, needed two servos to hold onto it. The medic flipped a switch and then held it over Ultra’s middle.

“Oh.”

Ultra leaned over and looked at the screen, but nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. On the device was a grainy image of the sparkling’s outline. The last time he’d seen them, all he could see was their pulsing spark with outlines of protoform beginning to come together.

His spark leapt.

“Yep, movement alright. You’re what, ten decacycles in?”

“Just about,” Ultra replied, confirming.

“Mhmm. Sounds about on par with what Red Alert and I have seen in the datapads so far,” Ratchet said. “Got about thirty or so more decacycles to go, depends on what their frame’s gonna be. But, you know this.”

Nodding once, Ultra sighed. “I would be more surprised if they weren’t a heavier frame, either like myself or Megatron. So I’d assume the maximum timeframe for them to emerge.”

“You’d be surprised,” Ratchet said. “Arcee’s creators were both about your size. Probably a bit bigger.”

Ultra briefly entertained the notion of a small, petite frame coming from both him and Megatron. The thought made him have to try and hold back a laugh.

At that moment, a communication ping came through.

::Just a guess, but guessin’ the single home in the mountains is yours?::

The former Magnus smiled and sent a reply. ::You would be correct::

Another communication ping came through. ::Say do you have access to the Grid? For when you’re asleep and all?::

Jazz took over and replied to Bumblebee. ::Not gonna need that. You still got some more training to do, Bee. Playin’ on the Grid’ll take away from that::

Ultra Magnus held back another laugh when Bumblebee started to make a whining noise. ::Noted. I will see the both of you when you get here::

.-.-.

That night was the first time in a while that the nightmare didn’t return. Instead, the sparkling giggled and beckoned him to go and play among the mountains.


	15. Did I Build a Ship to Wreck

Though the terrifying nightmares that had haunted him ceased, another creature soon surged forth to haunt him and wake him nightly. Ultra reopened his optics and pressed the palms of his servos against his forehelm, sighing in frustration at the dancing that no one could see and that he could only feel. “May I please, _please_ get some recharge?”

The sparkling stopped for a hot moment, then resumed its antics. Ultra could feel the glee across their creator-creation bond.

He tried to be angry, but with that amount of happiness that the sparkling felt, he didn’t want to crush it. He sat up in berth, with a little bit of struggle, and placed his servos over the now-prominent swell of his belly, tapping his digits. The sparkling continued moving, but their excitement multiplied, and they began tapping back at him.

A soft knock came at the door, one that he’d come to recognize as Jazz’s. Ultra looked up and cleared his vocalizer. “Come in.”

The cyber-ninja opened the latch and slowly walked in, visor glinting softly in the moonlight. “It’s pretty early, sir. What’re you doin’ up?”

“This one,” Ultra gestured to his middle, “likes to throw parties and keep me up all night cycle. What signaled that I was up?”

“Heard ya ask for recharge,” Jazz said, tone tinged with a laugh. “Shoulda figured who you were talkin’ to.”

Ultra sighed heavily and leaned back on the berth, supporting himself by planting the palms of his servos slightly behind him. He stared at the ceiling. “And to think that this is only a precursor to what awaits me when this one decides to finally get out.”

The other mech sat on the edge of the berth. “Been a while since I’ve ever been around bitlets or even younglin’s, but I’ve heard bitlets tend to take after their carriers. Personality wise, I think. So dependin’ on if you were a bad bitlet or a good one,” Jazz smirked, “might get lucky.”

The former Magnus thought back to the datapads he’d been given. He didn’t remember reading anything of the sort in them, but then again the text that was normally in these pads were of a scientific, matter-of-fact nature. Ultra decided to entertain the notion for a moment before realizing that other than being told he’d been a wreck as a sparkling, he had no idea how he’d behaved.

“Well,” he said after thinking his next words carefully, “if anything I would at least hope that Megatron was an affable sparkling. I don’t know what I was like.”

“Didn’ get a chance to… oh.” Even though part of Jazz’s faceplates were hidden behind a visor, Ultra could still see the realization that clicked. “Right. Never was fond of your creators.”

“I didn’t quite hate them either,” Ultra said quietly. “I like to think if it had been better circumstances I probably would have been…” he trailed off, not even sure what he himself wanted to think. The sparkling took that exact moment to remind both bots that hey, they were there too. Ultra grunted and put a servo to his side as the bitlet thumped. Servo or pede, he wasn’t sure what exactly it was, but he glared down at his middle. “We’ll have to discuss your manners, little one.”

The bitlet thumped him again in defiance, and he sighed.

“Can I?” Jazz asked, reaching his servo out a few micrometers from his frame. Ultra smiled and nodded, watching as the cyber-ninja splayed his servo on his swollen middle. The sparkling went still for a moment, and their gleeful sentiments gave way to curiosity as they resumed their excited movements.

“Crazy,” the white-armored bot whispered, a huge grin on his own faceplates. “They can sense me?” he asked.

“Somehow, yes. They’re already familiar with Ratchet and Red Alert, I think. The more time I spend around and speak to others, the more familiar that they become with them.” Ultra furrowed his optic ridges and looked down. “Now that I think about it… they’ve developed different responses to each of them.”

Jazz tilted his helm to the side a minute fraction. “Different responses?”

Ultra nodded. “This one gets slightly feisty when Ratchet comes around, but they seem to calm down entirely when Red Alert is here. Though that may just be myself having an effect on their behavior.”

“So, meanin’ you get feisty with Ratchet?”

Now that Jazz said it that way… Ultra held back the slightly abashed grin that threatened to erupt on his faceplates. “He and I have a slightly tempestuous rapport with one another.”

“Hmph,” Jazz replied, pulling his servo back and crossing his arms over his extended chassis, “think the only bot he’s not feisty with is Arcee. Now, make sure you get some recharge, sir, we got that thing tomorrow.”

Right. That thing. Ultra leaned back onto the wall of cushions that had been set up for him, sighing at the pleasant sensation that met his back struts. “You as well, Jazz. Have a restful recharge.”

The white armored bot snorted. “I’ll try, else I’ll have to put a muzzle on Bee.”

.-.-.

Time had become nothing at this point. What was the point of time if he didn’t have to keep track of it for now? He’d start it up again whenever the sparkling had arrived and the execution was definitely slated to happen once more. He faintly heard whatever date the guards would tell him it was every so often when they came to make sure he wasn’t trying to wreak havoc or that he hadn’t made a mess.

Thankfully, both for them and for his own leftover dregs of dignity, he hadn’t left a biological mess for them to clean up. He still pitied the poor guard that had been put in charge of wiping the mess up. Megatron had heard talk that the mech had had a breakdown of epic proportions and had to be sent home on medical leave.

Autobots and their prudishness, he laughed.

At that moment, a guard walked in. Megatron sat up straight and narrowed his optics at the femme, whom he knew was named Cyclone, but said nothing.

“Ultra Magnus is on his way over to see you,” she said, servos on her hips, blue optics boring directly through the glass pane that muffled her voice. “You’ll be guarded by extra bots stationed directly outside the door.”

“I’m not in the mood to hurt him.”

“It’s not just that,” Cyclone said firmly. “It’s so we’ll know if something funny comes up. We all know what happened last time around, that’s what got the both of you and all of us into this situation.”

Megatron bristled at the comment, though he knew it was true. “When will he be arriving?”

“ETA is very soon. He’ll be let in when he gets here.”

“Fine,” Megatron said, sighing and watching as she walked out of the room.

The Decepticon warlord wondered what it could be that Ultra would want to see him about. If it was simply to discuss the sparkling… all Megatron had to say was that it would be up to the former Autobot Magnus. He wouldn’t be around for anything.

Against his better judgement and better knowledge, Megatron curled his servos into fists.

.-.-.

Jazz and Bumblebee had gotten used to the sight of the Ultra with his changing frame, so their first elongated stares had tapered off to nothing.

Ultra tried not to be annoyed when he disembarked from the shuttlecraft that Optimus had sent to him and saw and felt the widened optics staring in his direction. Part of him wanted to tell them to cut the act, tell them that if anything they should probably take a photo capture because it would last longer, but he decided against it.

Thankfully, it seemed like Bumblebee had read his processor. “What,” the yellow scout said, calling out the pair of Elites that were directly in front of them, “you never seen a carrying mech before?”

Actually, Ultra would retract the “thankfully” part of his train of thought. He closed his optics and pinched his nasal ridge between a thumb and foredigit of his servo. “I don’t think they have.”

The sparkling fluttered, their spark exuding a calm aura - a lot calmer than they had been during the entire ride over. Ultra had felt a little bit uneasy, and those emotions had transferred over to the little bit, making them act out. Their usual dance party had become what Bumblebee had referred to as a mosh pit. Whatever that was.

Cyclone stepped out of Trypticon’s front entrance and walked over. Even she had to gawk a little bit, but she was more professional in that she regained her composure whereas the Elites still nearby had stupefied looks on their faces. She nodded at him. “Is there anyone you want to bring down to the lower levels with you?”

Ultra looked at the white-armored ninja bot and the yellow-armored scout. “Both of them, but only as far as the hallway that leads to Megatron’s quarters.”

The guard nodded and then beckoned them to follow.

When they went through the front doors of the prison, Bumblebee made a remark about how damp and chilly the prison was. Ultra paid him no attention as the four of them boarded the nearest lift and took it down to the lowest levels. As they passed the last few levels until the very bottom one, he could hear the shouts of Decepticons held on those floors.

Cyclone answered the question he didn’t ask; “They’re angry that you’re here again.”

Ultra made a faint nodding motion with his helm, staring straight ahead as the doors of the lift opened and they walked out into a dimly lit corridor. “I don’t think I could ever placate them.”

“No, quite frankly neither do I.” Cyclone turned to Jazz and Bumblebee, saying, “Wait here. There’s other guards waiting for him.”

The former Magnus let himself be led to the familiar door. When it was opened, he found himself a little bit dazed at the bright light within.

“Knock when you’re ready to leave,” Cyclone said quietly before closing the door behind him, leaving Ultra in the same vicinity as Megatron. Bearing himself for whatever reaction could come, Ultra slowly stepped in front of the glass pane. He saw the crimson optics widen slightly as they gazed over the entirety of his frame, Megatron’s point of focus coming to rest on his heavy middle that there was no way to conceal. Ultra kept his stance, backstruts straightened and helm held level. He reached a servo out to replace the glass pane with the metal bars and energy beams.

“I thought it was a joke,” the warlord whispered after a moment of staring through the square openings.

Something about the way Megatron said those words cut Ultra to his core. He pressed his lipplates into a thin line and squared his shoulder struts. “I hate to be a disappointment, then. I know how much Decepticons enjoy their jokes.”

“I didn’t think that it would be possible that… that you could get sparked.” Megatron gave a harsh chuckle. “I never entertained the notion.”

Ultra huffed. “I didn’t think it was either. I was as surprised to learn it if as you were.”

A dark look came over Megatron’s faceplates. “But you’re the one that made the final decision.”

Rankled, the former Magnus made a demand. “Explain yourself. What do you mean by “final decision?””

“It’s a Decepticon-Autobot hybrid.” Megatron curled his servos around the bars of the cell, ex-venting heavily. “As far as we’re aware, the very first one to exist.” He made an annoyed noise. “Did you ever consider the ramifications for the sparkling?”

“What ramifications?” Ultra said tersely.

“Socially!” Megatron near exploded, and Ultra took a step back while keeping his helm high and his bright optics focused on the mech. “Will it be able to fend for itself? Will it be accepted into your Autobot society? I’ve heard that death threats have been levied against the both of you.” Megatron seemed to calm down, and after a few moments of pause, continued. “You Autobots claim to have such a free society and yet I worry for the offspring we’ve created, whether they will face as much prejudice as if they were fully a Decepticon. I will be gone soon, and you will be gone one solar cycle, and you won’t be there to protect them.”

The reminder that he would be gone one day, while something he knew was coming at some point, sent rage into Ultra’s spark. He curled his servos into fists. “Then that means it is my job to teach our sparkling how to protect themselves!”

Megatron’s optics were dark as he said, “Fine job you’ve done protecting yourself that you need Elite Guards with you at all times.”

Ultra’s fists were ready to fly, if only Megatron weren’t tucked away in a cell. “It was offered and I accepted,” he grit out. “Our sparkling will be able to fend for themselves without you and I one solar cycle.”

The former warlord stared harshly at the former Magnus and quietly said, “I think you’ll find that even your status as a former Magnus won’t help them fully integrate into Autobot society, just as my status as the leader of the Decepticons wouldn’t help them integrate into Decepticon ranks.”

Both mechs stood there in a thick silence.

“Was it on purpose?”

“Was what on purpose?”

Megatron made a gesture at the other mech’s swollen middle. “Your decision to keep the sparkling. Are you using it as a weapon against me?”

Ultra leveled a glare at the warlord. “I can’t believe you’d think I would do such a thing. That thought hadn’t even _crossed_ my processor.”

“So then why didn’t you terminate?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to,” Ultra whispered, trying to keep tears from falling down his faceplates - he wouldn’t show any further signs of weakness against Megatron. He refused to. “I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to have offspring until recently.” He placed a servo over his middle. “Even when I realized I was sparked, it hadn’t occurred to me. And,” he cleared his vocalizer, “this is the first sparkling to be conceived in millenia. Ever since Powered Convoy had mandated the sterilization of our forces. I’m not about to go down in history as the mech that eliminated a glimmer of hope in one of our darker times…”

Ultra then trailed off mid-sentence, becoming aware of stirring within his abdomen. He felt along the creator-creation bond for the sparkling, who responded to him with something akin to curiosity.

“What is it?” Megatron asked.

“They’re up,” Ultra said quietly, stroking his digits along his midsection. “I woke them up.” He closed his optics, sighed, and then reopened them to look Megatron in his optics. “Did you…” he trailed off.

“Did I what?”

“Do you want to feel the sparkling? They are half yours, after all.”

Megatron looked like he was considering it for a moment. Ultra waited for the servo to reach through the bars and for the tips of those dark digits to touch his gravid belly, feel the bitlet moving underneath.

Then his spark sunk as Megatron simply turned around, back to the former Magnus, and said in a quiet voice, “I’d rather you leave right now.”

Ultra was quiet for a moment. Then he said, tone terse, “They’re your progeny as well as mine.”

“What would be the use, Ultra Magnus?” He saw the Decepticon’s frame tense up. “They won’t get a chance to know me.”

A flurry of harsh words came to Ultra’s processor, a surge of emotion came over his spark, but they never left his vocalizer. Instead, he squared his shoulder struts, pressed the button on the wall to further divide himself from the former warlord via a glass pane, and knocked on the door to be let out.

.-.-.

When he had come up to the end of the hallway, Jazz and Bumblebee took one look at him and could tell by the expression on his faceplates that it hadn’t gone well. Ultra simply sighed and looked at Cyclone. “We’ll be leaving now. No need to see us up.”

The femme nodded.

Ultra boarded the lift, watching dully and emotionlessly as Jazz and Bumblebee scurried in and the doors closed behind them. Jazz took the lead this time, punching the code to make the lift go to ground level and leading the other two out into the Trypticon rain.

When they embarked the shuttlecraft, Ultra secluded himself in the very back of the shuttle, staring out the window listlessly. He had no idea how much time passed until the craft lifted off the ground and begun a course back to his home in the mountains. After a little time of being midair, another form entered the back chamber.

“Left Bee in the chair. Shuttle’s on autopilot so we won’t crash.”

Nodding once, Ultra pinched his lipplates between his dentae and closed his optics, stemming the tears that tried to fall. They had other plans, however, breaking free of his optic covers and streaming down his faceplates.

A gentle servo that he realized was Jazz’s placed itself on his lower arm. He looked up at the cyberninja and gave him a wan smile while still trying to calm himself down. “I’m sorry that you have to see me like this,” Ultra said quietly after a long pause where the only sound to be heard had been his choked and stifled sobs.

To Jazz’s immense credit, he’d stayed there, comforting servo still on Ultra’s lower arm and still kneeling on one joint. His expression never changed from one of sympathy. “No need to apologize,” the cyber-ninja replied lowly. “Can tell it didn’t go well.”

Ultra heaved a wearied sigh and shook his helm. “No, it did not. But that is fine.” He reopened his optics and stared out the window of the shuttlecraft. “I intended on doing this by myself either way. And after what Megatron has been through, it’s to be expected. I expected that he wouldn’t show much of an interest in our sparkling, but there was still a small part of me that hoped. It was imbecilic of me.”

One of the corners of Jazz’s lipplates quirked upward into a half-grin before it faded as quickly as it’d come. “Just ‘cause you expected it, doesn’t mean it won’t still hurt.”

As if in agreement, the sparkling lightly thumped against his side. Putting a servo to his side, he nodded. “There is part of me that doesn’t want to do this by myself, but it is my only option. I put myself into it.”

Jazz patted his servo. “Know Ratchet and Red keep tellin’ you you’re not alone, so I’ll say it again. We’ll all be here.”

Ultra simply smiled and watched Jazz walk off before turning his attention back to the land and the sky outside the window, servo tracing nonsensical symbols over his belly. The sparkling fluttered and reached out for him, and he reached out in kind to them.


	16. To Let Me Dangle at a Cruel Angle

“Oh, would you-”

“Would  _ you _ stay still while we try to figure out what’s going on?”

Glowering at the duo of medics hovering over him, one on each side of the berth, Ultra huffed but said nothing more as he waited out the myriad of tests. Thoroughly annoyed by the constant beeping of the machines taking his scans, he considered demanding that his audio processors get shut off, but that would only prolong the entire testing cycle.

Decisions, decisions. He decided to put up with it.

The sparkling wasn’t much happier either - they were irritated and cranky, as evidenced by the thumps they made against Ultra’s side.

He’d been in a foul mood since he’d woken this morning and hadn’t been able to get out of berth. The sparkling wasn’t so heavy, but there was a lot of pain shooting up his spinal strut and his hip and pelvic area that had left him curled on his side, trying his best to hold back curses as he called for Ratchet and Red Alert via Jazz and Bumblebee.

It had settled at this point to a dull ache. Ultra placed his servos over his optic covers and made a frustrated noise

“You’re impossible,” Red Alert said.

Removing his servos from his face, Ultra glared at the medic. “I apologize for being concerned about the welfare of myself and my sparkling.”

“Not that. The attitude you have, you’re about as worse as Sentinel sometimes. We’re almost done with it, so be patient.”

The beeping of the machines conducting the scans slowed down after a few more kliks, and Ultra watched intently as both Red Alert and Ratchet looked at the datapads in their servos, reading the results that the instruments were loading onto the drives. A look was exchanged between both medics that raised more than a few questions.

“What is it? What is going on?” Ultra tried to get up, but Ratchet reached out and none-too-gently shoved the former Magnus to lie back down. Ultra glared at him.

“We’re comparing notes and making sure we’re getting the same readings,” Red Alert answered without looking up from the datapad, digits of one of her servos skimming across the surface of it.

Ultra huffed. “Well, may I please hear something so I don’t begin assuming the worst?”

Red Alert sighed. “We expected your energon pressure to be elevated because you’re in the process of creating a brand new Cybertronian, but you’re currently at levels that border on an episode of spark attack. Granted, there is a little bit of leeway, but we need to lower your levels somehow.”

“Are you stressin’ ‘bout somethin’?”

Ultra gave Ratchet a look. “The sparkling and how I will have to raise them is on my processor, as it always is.”

“But to the point that you’re stressing yourself over it?”

The former Magnus drummed his digits on the surface of the berth, thinking back to the seemingly-long ago conversation with Megatron. “It’s nothing, Ratchet. Simply fretting.”

At that point, the machine keeping track of his spark rate beeped to signal an increase. 

He felt like disconnecting the wires.

“We were thinkin’ it was probably just normal for your carryin’ cycle, but your spark rate started elevatin’ after you went and saw Megatron,” Ratchet said, crossing his arms over his chassis. “So somethin’ went up there.”

“Yes. It’s called going to see the mech that sired my bitlet on me and having him turn my sparkling away.”

“What do you mean that he turned your sparkling away?” Red Alert asked.

The visceral hurt he’d felt on behalf of the sparkling came surging back, remembering how Megatron had outright rejected the both of them. “I’m not discussing it further. Don’t dwell on it.”

A tense silence followed as a stare-off commenced between the former Magnus and his two attending physicians. The only thing Ultra was aware of was the two sets of blue optics staring at him, and the sparkling moving restlessly within his body.

“If you’re not going to tell us…” Red Alert started in a worried, concerned voice, but then trailed off. Ultra made a motion with his servo for her to continue, but she shook her helm. “Don’t worry about it, just as you told us not to do with your issue. We won’t ask, but we will have to make sure that both you and the bitlet come out of this alive.”

“And functionin’ properly,” Ratchet muttered.

“I care less about myself at this point than I do my bitlet. What is wrong with them?”

“The sparkling is fine. They’re just a little smaller than we should expect them to be, coming from mechs both yours and Megatron’s sizes.”

Ultra looked at Ratchet. “You said at one point that Arcee came from thickly-built frames.”

Ratchet snorted. “‘ccording to ‘cee, they knew she was gonna be a smaller frame from the preliminary scans. This one,” he pulled up a scan of the bitlet and turned it towards Ultra, “is definitely gonna be a big sparkling.”

“Of course, there is a very small chance that they might just be a shorter, less stocky version of yourself. A frametype like yours is what we’re seeing. Nonetheless,” Red Alert sighed and put a servo over the back of her neck, “we will be increasing your intake of specialty energon to make sure that the bitlet isn’t missing out on anymore critical nutrients.”

Ultra closed his optics, processed the information, and then nodded.

“Even though the sparkling isn’t fairly big just yet, just the weight of it at this point in time is turning out to be a lot more than your frame can handle, Ultra. We’re going to have to put you on very strict berth rest until you go into emergence.”

The datapads he’d been given had told him, in very clear terms and with very clear detail, the importance of being up and around and as active as possible. So to be given conflicting information was irritating in the least bit. Ultra levied a glare on both Red Alert and Ratchet. “Is there any particular reason why you’re telling me the exact opposite of what the datapad is telling me to do?”

“Ultra,” Red Alert said firmly, handing the datapad in her servos over to him and circling parts on the image that was on the screen, “do you see what I’m highlighting?”

He looked at the image, and nodded. 

“This is an image scan of your pelvic struts. These,” she pointed to the lighter-grey lines that were surrounded by the hastily drawn circles, “are fractures that were in the process of healing when you were released from the medical bay after the attempt on your life by Shockwave.”

“They’re gettin’ aggravated ‘cause of the sparkling. Even if the bitlet is small right now, it’s still too much for your hips to handle.”

“And since your sparkling will be getting bigger,” Red Alert said with a tone of exhaustion in her voice, “we have little choice but to do this.”

Ultra didn’t move his gaze off of the datapad, looking at the absolute mess that was his pelvic struts and the microscopic fractures. Above them, the mass of the sparkling. In the scan was a still image of them curled up. He placed his free servo over the curve of his middle and handed the datapad back to Red Alert.

_ The Pit I have had to go through for you, little one, though none of it is of your fault. _

“It’s for both you and the sparkling, sir. I’m not going to apologize.”

“I understand, Red, and I’m not looking for an apology in the least bit. At the very least,” Ultra sighed, running his digits over the swell of his belly, “this further cements my decision to never go through this again. The nausea, the pain on my frame…” he trailed off, and was grateful that none of the other two tried to prod him further. He assumed they could get the gist of what he was saying.

The sparkling lightly fluttered under their carrier’s touch, which calmed Ultra down significantly. He wondered, as he always did, what it would be like when he was finally done with this and this little being would be out, and would be weight in his arms.

“We’ll be giving Jazz and Bumblebee orders to have you off your pedes and doing extremely minimal activity while standing.”

Ratchet cleared his vocalizer and looked at Red Alert. “Should probably look into gettin’ some sorta mobility device for him if it gets a lot worse.”

“We should - we’ll need to ask Optimus about it, though I’m certain he’ll be happy to acquiesce it.”

“Gonna have to do it under radar, ‘cause some of the Elite Guards still not happy ‘bout it.”

“Define the Elite Guard,” Ultra asked with a tone of slight reproach in his voice. 

“The Elite Guard Ratchet is talking about means Sentinel Prime and Nitro Minor. Don’t worry about it. Also, Ultra,” Red Alert turned and looked at him, smile in her optics, “we know if the sparkling is a mech or a femme frame. Would you like to know what you’re having?”

Ultra paused and thought about it for a long moment. Then he shook his helm. He was fairly certain he knew, but he wanted to try and surprise himself. “I think I would prefer to keep it a surprise,” he said quietly. “I feel like I might know already. And no,” he gave them both pointed glances hinted with a bit of humor in them, “don’t ask what I feel it is, because neither of you are very good at hiding your thoughts, so no matter what I say you’d give it away immediately.”

Red Alert gave him a cheeky grin while Ratchet muttered something about “young bots” under his breath. Not that Ultra was that much younger than Ratchet.

“Thank you, both of you. Please make sure to keep me updated on whatever you find out,” Ultra finished off, before moving his arm and realizing he was still hooked up to the machines. He stared at the wires and then looked at both medics. “May I have some help getting myself disconnected?”

.-.-.

“So,” Jazz’s voice cut through the fog of his processor, “heard Ratch say you think you know what your bit is?”

Nodding, Ultra shifted where he sat, optics staring but not really seeing what it was that Bumblebee was playing, which he’d been informed was called a video game. “I have a feeling that I’m having a mechling,” Ultra replied as he rested both of his servos on the curve of his middle and looked down at his heavy middle. “I’ll have to think of designations.”

“Ooh.” Jazz got a bright smile on his faceplates and he sat cross-legged on the long seat, tilting his helm curiously. “Got any ideas right now?”

Ultra shook his helm and made a slightly embarrassed noise. “I’m much closer to emergence than not, and I have no ideas in mind.”

Bumblebee piped up from where he was seated in front of the holoscreen. “Hey, you should name him after me!”

“I don’t think the universe has the capacity to handle two Bumblebees,” Ultra said dryly. “One is more than enough for this lifetime.”

“Hey!” Bumblebee shouted, his avatar within the video game falling to its death and Jazz laughing uproariously at Ultra’s side, doubled over. Even Ultra had to smile a little bit at his fairly blunt comment - he had been worried that he was losing his touch.

“In all seriousness, I would like my sparkling to be named something a little more regal than simply Bumblebee.” Ultra twisted his lipplates into a bit of a scowl. “I’ve been functioning for a long time, and I still dislike my name.”

“Didn’t try changin’ it?”

“I considered it. By the time I realized how much I wanted to make it official, the war had begun and I couldn’t think of anything else that I liked, or at least disliked a little less. Ultra,” he said his own name, sighing. “I don’t know why my own creators didn’t think of something else.”

“You have a cool name,” Bumblebee piped up once again, his avatar on the screen having been revived. Then he realized the word he’d missed. “Uh, you have a cool name,  _ sir _ .” 

“Bumblebee, you and I have very different opinions on what is “cool” and what is not.”

“Um, I dunno… Roadbuster? Axel? Springer?”

Those names sounded so familiar. “Where are these from?” Ultra asked, an optic ridge raised.

The yellow scout looked at him like he’d spontaneously grown a second helm. “Those are some of the bots who started in the Elite Guard same time that Bulkhead and I did. Remember?”

Sighing, Ultra replied, “There’s been thousands, probably a lot closer to the tens of thousands, of Elite Guards that went through us during my entire time as the Magnus. As much as I would want to, I can’t remember everyone’s designations.”

Jazz cleared his own vocalizer, looking like he was going to say something, but then held back. Ultra wanted to ask what it was that was on Jazz’s processor, but decided that it would probably be better done in private.

“So if not one of those,” Bumblebee said, his attention now focused back on his game, “what names are you thinking of? Kinda like Nitro, but there’s already a Nitro and she’s a bit of a Sentinel slagger.”

Ultra sighed and leaned his helm back so he stared at the ceiling, thinking about it further. Parsing his words, he said, “During that very brief stay on Earth I read one or two datapads regarding its history, and I actually enjoyed some of the names they’d given to their deities. They were quite… well, they might be something that suits the sparkling. I’ll have to decide later. Jazz,” Ultra looked at the cyber-ninja and held an arm out, “may I have some assistance making it back to my berth?”

“Can do, sir.” The cyber-ninja hopped off the long seat and helped him get to his pedes, slowly guiding him back to his berthroom. Though Ultra tried to take it with relative grace, he couldn’t help but feel slightly mortified that he’d reached this point. He’d thought he had at least a few hundred more stellar cycles before he needed help with simple tasks such as this.

_ Frag. I really am an old mech. _

The sparkling chose that moment to give him a swift, almost admonishing, kick to his side, making him yelp in surprise.

“You alright there?”

“I am. The sparkling seems to be throwing a fit over Primus-knows-what.” Ultra rubbed his side and slowly made his way into the berth, adjusting the cushions behind his back and muttering to himself under his breath before clearing his vocalizer. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to survive through this berth rest period.”

“Did Ratch and Red tell you how long for?”

Ultra internally winced as he replied, “The rest of my carrying cycle.”

Jazz didn’t hide his own wince.

“Indeed. So I’ll be relying on you and Bumblebee for a lot more than I feel is necessary, but,” he sighed heavily and stroked his side again, which elicited a faint movement from the sparkling, “if it’s for their sake, it’s for their sake. So I won’t argue much with them. Oh, and,” Ultra tilted his helm in a curious manner, looking at the cyber-ninja questioningly, “what was it that you were going to say, out there?”

“Hmm?”

“You made a motion that you were going to say something when Bumblebee and I were having our back-and-forth about sparkling names.”

“Oh that.” Jazz put his servo over the back of his neck and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just… was gonna suggest Yoketron and Prowl there, just for the slag of it. But it woulda felt weird, and I don’t think you’d really like ‘em much.”

A half-smile crossed Ultra’s faceplates. “I do appreciate those designations, Jazz.” The cyber-ninja perked his helm up a little bit. “But, I will also say that from what I feel of my sparkling right now, neither of those names seem to suit them. They’re… far more active and spry than either of those names can convey.”

“Yeah,” the white-armored bot chuckled, smiling back. “I figured that’d be the case.”

“If they were a lot calmer than they are, possibly.” Ultra reached out and gently placed a servo over the cyber-ninja’s own servo that had been resting on his thigh. “I know how much they meant to you. I’m sorry.”

The cyber-ninja gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I got over Master Yoketron eons ago. Prowl…” his voice wavered a little bit before he composed himself again, “still hurts.”

“I’m not surprised. It was relatively recent.”

“Yeah, it was. Ever think there might be that one bot that no matter how much time passes by, you won’t get over it?”

Ultra thought of the loved ones he’d lost. His creators were deceased, that much he knew. The pangs of sorrow he’d felt at their passing had been relatively short-lived, and soon enough they faded into distant memory.

He couldn’t remember at this point how they sounded, and their faces were blurs in his mind’s optic. Powered Convoy was the closest example of a bot he could think of that he’d mourned, with the sentient Sigma Supreme in a very close second. His spark still ached in some small way when he remembered his predecessor and the Omega Sentinel. 

Ultra drew air into his vents and slowly responded, “There might be for some. Not all. But what I do know from having lived to this point is that eventually you will reach a point where you will learn to carry your sorrow around. It’ll become a small part of you that you don’t mind the weight of.”

Jazz tapped his digits on his knee. “Felt that with Master Yoketron. But it’s been ‘bout two-thirds of a stellar cycle since Prowl’s offlinin’. Still hurts more than it did with our sensei.”

“I would assume that it hurts because you loved him so deeply.”

The white-armored cyber-ninja bristled slightly for a fleeting moment, before his frame relaxed and he looked down at his servos that had moved position to his knees. “Yeah. Planned to do a lot of things together after the war. Loved Prowl, ‘nd I never got a chance to tell ‘im.”

The sparkling moved. Ultra stroked his middle to settle them down. “I’m very sorry. I’m sure he loved you as well.”

The edges of Jazz’s lipplates quirked upwards before he composed himself and stood up. “Need anythin’ else before I head out?”

“At this moment, no.”

“Right. Just comm us. Have a good recharge, sir.” 

Ultra nodded and watched the cyber-ninja walk out of his berthroom and gently close the door. He settled into his berth, sighing and looking out of the window.

His processor hearkened back to when he had been a simple cadet in the Elite Guard. Not a lot of rank, but also not a lot to do outside of drills and paces. He’d come across the Cyber-Ninja Dojo as a young one and had decided that it couldn’t hurt to pick up some more skills. It had been frustrating, but more than worth it to hear Master Yoketron tell him that he was one of the best melee fighters he’d ever trained.

The sparkling made a slight thumping motion before settling into a contented flutter. He smiled, thinking of how he would have liked for the old cyber-ninja to still be functioning. Perhaps his bitlet would have taken to the fighting form he’d been trained in.

Now wouldn’t that have been something, he pondered. He hadn’t been as close with his sensei as Jazz, and evidently Prowl, had been, but he still had known him well enough to be able to imagine the stupefied and then elated look that he would have gotten at the prospect of teaching the progeny of one of his best students.

His systems suddenly pinged him, letting him know that he was very low on energy, and he slowly drifted off into recharge, thinking of the sparkling being put through the exact training he had.

If the intensity of their kicks and thumps were anything to go by, they would certainly excel at it.


	17. And Oh, Poor Atlas

That night, he dreamed.

As with the dreams he’d had previously, successors to the nightmares he used to have of the sparkling being ripped from his body, he woke up to a sunny sky above him as he lay on a patch of soft ground. After taking in the beauty of the sky, he sat up and saw movement in tall grass before him.

Knowing how it always ended so far, Ultra hoped for a different outcome, one where he could see the mystery bitlet faceplate-to-faceplate. Getting to his pedes, he followed the tracks that the sparkling was laying for him in the grass.

The sparkling was hidden well. He was only able to track their movements by watching the rustling of the grass. He laughed and chased after them, and he swore he could hear them giggling, asking him to come and find them. He happily obliged as much as his aging frame, even in his dreams, could do.

Only in his recharge, it seemed, was he able to be happy. The sun beat down on his armor, the sky was so clear, and the mountains stood tall before him. It was a far cry from all the happenings in his true reality as of late, where he was now confined to berth rest, unable to be out in the wind and the sun.

He looked forward to finally being able to hold his sparkling and be able to introduce them to the majesty of their surroundings, the mountains, the stars, the rest of the world that awaited them. This that he saw was only a very small sampling of what he could show them.

Then, quite suddenly, the soft and regular background noise that he’d only faintly noticed disappeared, plunging him into silence. The sky above went from light and airy to dark and heavy with foreboding. Ultra looked around for the mystery little frame, trying to see if there was any further movement from them, but the field of grass before him was still, as if waiting with bated breath for something, anything, to happen.

The only times he’d felt something like this was the roaring calm before a battle with the Decepticons, a precursor to the storm.

At that moment, a voice that he’d never heard before, shrill and panicked, yelled at him from the sky.

**“WAKE UP!”**

The scream was just enough to jolt him out of recharge as his optics opened suddenly, widened by panic. His optics opened just in time to see, with the illumination of moonlight through the window, the glint of a blade hovering over the center of his chassis.

Before he could think, he yelled and kicked the bot that held said blade off of him, and scrambled off the berth. The corner of his optics caught movement as yet another bot swooped in, armed with a battle pistol, and he managed to duck the shot that was fired at him. He charged at them, grabbing the pistol and throwing it elsewhere in the room, throwing the weight of both himself and the bitlet into tossing them helm-first at the wall.

::Jazz, Bumblebee, I need assistance!::

The bot he’d kicked off of his frame charged at him again. Ultra punched them squarely in the faceplates. When they fell back, he noticed the crack in one of the optics.

It seemed that more than a nanoklik had passed by the time he’d heard an affirmative ping and the sound of footfalls racing towards him. The other botwith the cracked optic tried to grab him again, but Ultra grabbed and threw the bot against the wall that he’d hurled the previous one and watched as they both crumpled to the floor.

The door opened and the cyberninja and Elite Guard cadet burst through. Ultra had thought there were only two assailants, but a third revealed themselves by seemingly peeling off from a dark shadow in a corner and going for him with a blaster.

Luckily Bumblebee was swift enough, his small frame jumping on the much bigger assailant and jabbing them in the neck with his stingers.

“You alright sir?”

In a processor daze, he’d been looking at Bumblebee taking on the third assailant. Ultra looked up and blinked at Jazz for a moment before reaching out with his servo to grip at the edge of the berth and falling to his knees. “I’ll be fine,” he said slowly. He managed to raise his helm, locking optics with one of the assailants that Jazz was in the process of placing into stasis cuffs. His spark rate jolted slightly at the very familiar faceplate and the hatred in the one functional, one cracked blue optics that glared back at him.

“Trypticon guards on their way!”

It was then that Ultra realized whom he’d injured via punch to the face. 

He heard Jazz say her name in surprise, heard Bumblebee sting all of them into brief stasis, but at that moment, he lurched forward and his entire body shook as he purged energon on the floor, wrapping his free arm around his middle.

“Sir?” Jazz was at his side in an instant.

There was a pain in his lower belly that grew stronger with each passing moment, and he reached a point where it was almost unbearable. Ultra pressed his helm down to the surface of the berth, trying to steady his intake rate, and ran a rudimentary self-diagnostic check on his systems.

The sparkling was in danger. Their spark rate was very high. In his visual field he saw warnings popping up about the emergence cycle readying to commence.

No. He couldn’t be. He couldn’t do this.

The sparkling wasn’t ready.

_ He  _ wasn’t ready.

“Jazz,” he rasped out through a wave of pain that crested, “get Ratchet and Red Alert.”

Hurt. Hurt.

Everything hurt him and felt like fire was coursing through each micrometer of his neural net. Panic that wasn’t entirely his surged into his processor and spark. He tried to calm the sparkling, but there was no use in doing so when he couldn’t calm  _ himself _ .

“They’re on their way, sir, just try and calm down.”

Ultra wanted to scream that he couldn’t, that what was the use if he and his sparkling were going to go offline this night cycle. He moved his other servo that had been clutching the edge of the berth in a death-grip to wrap around his body, curling into himself, helm meeting the floor.

_ I’m so sorry little one. I’m so sorry. _

Pain rippled through his frame, and his visual field confirmed that he was now starting the emergence process. A number flashed at him, ten percent out of a hundred percent, and he didn’t know what that meant.

The sparkling moved frantically within, scared perhaps more than he was. He knew what happened and what was happening. The sparkling didn’t.

He suddenly became aware of two sets of servos grabbing him and fixing him on the berth, laying him on his back and supporting the weaker parts of his frame.

“Ultra, can you hear me?”

Processor registering Red Alert’s calm yet collected voice, he clung to it as his safety anchor. He struggled a bit, heaving and giving a faint nod of his helm.

“We’re going to do some scans on you and the sparkling to check on you. You’re going to be just fine.”

Ultra made a pained guttural noise and managed to turn his helm slightly to lock optics with Red Alert. “If you have to save either myself or the sparkling, save-”

“We’re going to save you both, don’t even start goin’ there,” Ratchet snapped. “We’re not lettin’ the both of you go offline on our watch.”

“But if it does happen-”

“We’re not hearin’ it Ultra, shut it.”

Even in his pain-addled mind, Ultra knew it was futile to try and keep arguing. He closed his optics and clenched his servos into fists, trying to ride out the pain.

_ Please Primus, if it comes down to myself or my sparkling, save them. _

.-.-.

Red Alert had woken up to the ping from Jazz. Once she’d realized what he was saying, she swore at the top of her vocalizer and raced to the mountains, thankful that she’d been staying close by in a very small town. How Ratchet had managed to get there at almost the same time she did, when for all she knew he’d been in Iacon, was beyond her.

But that wasn’t her worry now. Her worry was the former Magnus lying on the berth, her long-time friend in severe physical and emotional distress, with a sparkling that wasn’t ready to come out  _ trying  _ to come out. She held back her frustration and anger in favor of barking at Ratchet, “What are your readings getting?”

“Spark rate’s really elevated. Processor activity is off charts. Gettin’ readin’s off the bitlet sayin’ it’s…”

The pause in Ratchet’s sentence made her nervous, because it confirmed that she was getting the same activity. She tapped the readings for the bitlet on her own scanning screen. “The spark rate is elevated too. It’s getting stressed out.”

And she knew, as well as he did, that this situation was incredibly dangerous, possibly fatal, for the sparkling. 

Red sighed and put the datapad down, looking at Ultra’s closed optics, knowing he could hear but he was too stressed to ask what was going on regarding the bitlet. She put her digits to her forehelm, sighing heavily as she turned and walked to a corner nearby where Jazz and Bumblebee were standing guard. The cyber-ninja was the one that spoke first, voice low. “Ultra gonna be alright?”

“I don’t know,” Red Alert admitted without thinking.

“What’s goin’ on?”

The medic pursed her lipplates, thinking on her words before she spoke. “Put simply, they’re feeding off each other. They stress him out, he stresses them out, and if we can’t get his sparkrate to calm, we’re going to have to resort to drastic measures to get the bitlet to stop putting more stress on his spark.”

“What do you mean by drastic?” Bumblebee asked, optics a little wide.

Red Alert sighed and put her face in her servos for a moment before removing them. “Best case scenario is, we remove the armor around his middle and go through the protoform with a long needle to sedate the sparkling if sedating him doesn’t work on it. The worst scenario would be that we have to remove the sparkling entirely and set it up on spark-support.”

“Can you actually do that?” Bumblebee asked, tone of incredulity in his voice.

“Normally yes, we do it for fully grown Cybertronians. Ultra was on spark support. We know how much his spark can take, but this is a sparkling we’re discussing.” Red pinched her nasal ridge between two digits. “If we do too much…”

She didn’t need to continue. They all knew what the final part of that sentence would have been. 

Jazz broke the silence with a heavy sigh. “If that were the case, we’d be better off lettin’ both of them go offline.”

“I know,” Red Alert replied softly. She squared her shoulder struts, processor feeling much clearer that she was able to fess up. “But I’m not going to let that happen to either of them. Not if Ratchet and I have any power left in our servos.”

Looking both Elites in their optics, she nodded once and then returned back to berthside, watching Ratchet set up a monitoring machine that he’d evidently stored in his subspace. The mech caught her looking, and sighed. “Gonna be easier to keep track of both like this.”

Red nodded and looked at the readings that were showing up. Still the same as before.

She heard a noise from behind her and turned to see the heap of would-be assassins in another corner. Two of them were still out cold, while one was stirring.

Bumblebee was quick to take care of it, jumping on them and knocking them out again.

“He’s not showin’ any improvement.” Ratchet looked up at Red Alert. “I think we should put him in stasis at this point. It’ll be quicker than sedatin’ him.”

Red Alert composed herself and nodded. She took the one step up the berth so she was right by the gravid mech’s helm and leaned over. “Ultra,” Red Alert said in a firm voice, placing her servo on the former Magnus’s face to make sure he was at least looking in her general direction, “we’re going to put you into emergency stasis. It’s the only way we can save the both of you. Do you understand?”

The mech’s optics were wide but after a brief pause, he nodded.

Reaching into her subspace, Red Alert immediately unspooled a cable and plugged it into Ultra’s side panel, searching for the function that was keeping him conscious, keeping him awake with his overactive, traumatized spark and keeping the sparkling in the same boat. She found it and put in the code to pause the fuction’s execution.

At that moment, the tension in Ultra’s body left him and he went limp on the berth, but his spark still pulsed. The readings on the monitors changed, his spark rate going down, the pressure level of his innermost energon dropping significantly as the moments passed.

Soon after, the sparkling’s own readings began to mirror their carrier’s, spark rate dropping to their normal activity level.

Red heard the sigh of relief that Ratchet emitted as she looked for one more function in Ultra’s systems, and reversed it. Upon unspooling the cable and disconnecting both Ultra and herself from it, she looked at the readings once more and saw that the percentage number that showed dilation was slowing down, then reversing.

After a few kliks, everything returned to relatively normal levels. Normal as it could be for an old, carrying former Magnus, Red Alert reminded herself.

“They should both be out of immediate danger for now.”

At that moment a small contingent of Elite Guardbots made their way into the room. Jazz met them, pointed at the corner, and both medics, cyberninja, and cadet watched them get dragged out.

Jazz made a small growling noise deep in his vocalizer, and then started off after them. Bumblebee looked at the spot that the cyberninja had left behind, then blinked his blue optics at Ratchet and Red Alert. Neither she nor her mech counterpart had to say anything before Bumblebee said, “He knew one of them. I kinda remember her too.”

The fact that Jazz and Bumblebee knew one of the assailants was worrying. 

After a few more cycles of wavering, making sure that both mech and sparkling were relatively out of danger, Red Alert connected herself to Ultra’s side panel once more and brought Ultra out of his stasis lock.

.-.-.

The last thing he’d been aware of in the haze of recent events had been a voice telling him that he was going to be put in stasis lock. He hadn’t wanted it, his spark trembling in fright that he might never wake up from it like he had been afraid of the last time around, but then the voice stressed that it would save him and his sparkling.

Do to him whatever could be done. His concern was for his bitlet. As long as whatever was done could save them.

The lights were on a dim setting as he came to his senses. He noticed a two pairs of blue optics looking down at him from familiar faceplates. Once his processor caught up with his optic sensors, he smiled weakly at them.

Red Alert smiled at him and patted his arm gently. “We reversed the emergence protocols, and you shouldn’t have any further issues as long as nothing else happens to trigger it.”

Ultra nodded and stroked the gentle curve of his middle. “And the sparkling?”

“Fine as far as we can tell. After putting you in stasis, your spark rate dropped, and it helped theirs drop so we didn’t need to do some invasive procedures to help them out.”

“You did good Ultra,” Ratchet smiled at him (now that was a rare sight). “Saved yourself, saved your sparklin’.”

Ultra grinned weakly at Ratchet. Then he closed his optics and let his helm fall back a little further on the berth with a slight  _ thunk _ noise. “Do we know yet who the assailants were?”

He heard Jazz’s voice speak up from somewhere in the room. “Nitro Minor’s among them. Sentinel gave her the location of your home at some point when talkin’ to her.”

Trying to quell the surge of anger that overtook his spark, he bit on his lipplates and reopened his optics, looking at Jazz before asking, “Was he among the attackers?”

The cyberninja shook his helm. “Not that we know so far, sir. Was Nitro and two other cadets under her watch, all part of a fringe group of ‘bots that were calling for Megatron to be executed like, now. Sparkling and you be damned.”

The talk he’d had a time ago with Ratchet, Arcee, and Red Alert sprung to his processor, the reason why Jazz and Bumblebee had been taking guard of his well-being this entire time. “The same ones that were also speaking about making attempts on the lives of myself and my sparkling?”

Jazz nodded solemnly.

“Does Sentinel have  _ any _ affiliation with these groups whatsoever?”

“Not that we know of. Already contacted Optimus an’ told him what happened.”

Ratchet spoke next, turning to the cyberninja. “Did Prime - sorry, Magnus - say what he was gonna do?”

Jazz got a flicker of a grin across his faceplates. “Didn’ seem too pleased to hear what I told him, but I suppose he’ll get it sorted out soon.”

Red Alert cleared her vocalizer. “We’ll let Optimus worry about that. We’ve got Ultra and the sparkling to worry over. You,” Ultra watched as she pulled an energon cube out of her subspace and handed it to him, “keep in berth, don’t stress yourself out any more than necessary. Got it?”

Ultra closed his optics and nodded slowly.

.-.-.

“Oh, please tell me yer gonna kill ‘im.”

“If I could get away with it, I probably would,” Optimus answered through gritted dentae, hyperfocused on making sure that he made his way over to the interrogation room, the Stormbringer clutched in a servo. “I don’t want anyone else in there with me, because knowing Sentinel he’ll cry that he wasn’t being given “fair treatment.””

Kup laughed, his cy-gar falling out of his mouth, but he paid it no mind as he simply pulled another one from his subspace. “He’ll cry if ya go in there by yerself an’ say it wasn’t fair to let the Magnus have a go at ‘im, a lowly lil’ Prime.”

“Well, he wanted an audience with a Magnus for many stellar cycles, so he finally gets what Ultra never gave him,” Optimus came up to the interrogation room and unlocked it from the outside, tossing the key at Kup. “Lock me in, and don’t unlock it until I knock to be let out.”

“Sure thing Magnus,” Kup said, sticking the replacement cy-gar into his mouth. “Then can I cuff ‘im an’ take ‘im to Trypticon?”

“If I get a guilty plea out of him, yes.”

Optimus had never seen Kup look so giddy in his lifecycle. He saved the smile for later, perfectly aware that he had to go into the interrogation without much semblance of emotion.

But the irritated look on Sentinel’s faceplates was just enough to get him to lose some semblance of his composure.

The blue and orange mech made a noise of discontent. “What’s the meaning of this, Optimus? I was having a pretty good recharging cycle until your guards came and got me.”

“It’s Optimus  _ Magnus _ to you, Sentinel.” For further measure, Optimus leaned the Hammer against the nearest wall.

“What do I care? You might be Magnus in title but I was a lot adept at it than you are. I mean, c’mon, putting guards on your precious predecessor when he betrayed everything that the Autobots stand for?” The smug, self-satisfied smirk on Sentinel’s faceplates grated at Optimus’s sanity. “You’re a weak link. I wouldn’t have done it, to frag with him.”

Optimus lost it at that moment. He slammed his servos on the table and nearly leapt across it to grab Sentinel by his antennae, but he restrained himself from going that far. Instead, he leaned dangerously close to the Prime’s faceplates. “We just got word that Ultra Magnus was almost assassinated. This is the second time in a fragging stellar cycle, Sentinel. You want to play like that? Fine.” He straightened himself up. “Where are the other attackers located and when are they going to strike?”

Sentinel looked aghast at the implications. “How would I know?!”

“Did you or did you not give Nitro Minor the location of Ultra Magnus, which we’d been keeping under wraps due to the tense situation regarding the sparkling’s sire?”

“What does-”

Optimus slammed his servo on the table again, this time the sound a lot louder. “Don’t prevaricate Sentinel, answer the question!”

The Prime’s beady blue optics narrowed, but Optimus didn’t miss the minute shifting of his frame in the chair. A seemingly-long silence fell on them, the tension in the room getting thicker and thicker by the nanoklik.

“Sentinel?” Optimus asked in the most no-nonsense voice he could muster.

It seemed to work, as Sentinel’s expression changed to one of resignation. “I… I suppose I did. I don’t know.”

“What do you mean that you don’t know?”

Sentinel made a motion to stand up but Optimus grabbed Stormbringer and stroked his digits along the handle in an almost-threatening motion. “ _ I don’t know _ because she asked me questions a while back when I went on a tirade.”

“And let me guess - the tirade was about Ultra Magnus?”

“Yeah, and about you.”

Optimus wanted to ask what Sentinel said about him, but he figured out that he could make an educated guess. Focusing on the more important aspect, Optimus inquired, “What questions did she ask you?”

The Prime scoffed. “The first one was my thoughts on Ultra being allowed to call off the execution of Megatron, the ‘con who probably killed more ‘bots than every other ‘con combined. Think she might’ve asked me what I felt about the sparkling at one point. No, she did ask me.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said that I still stand by what I said at your inauguration ceremony. We’d be better off if it didn’t exist.”

“Actually, you said we’d be better off if Ultra Magnus’s sparkling went offline. Those are two  _ very  _ different things, Sentinel.”

Irritation coursed through the new Magnus’s system when he saw Sentinel give a non-committal shrug. “I think it depends how you look at it.”

“I’m not about to argue the merits of implication with you, Sentinel. So riddle me this - why did you feel it necessary to give Nitro Ultra’s location?”

“She wanted to go speak to Ultra personally about overturning Megatron’s stay of execution.”

Optimus put his helm in his servos, beating back the urge to yell at the top of his vocalizer. The depths of Sentinel’s ignorance would never cease to amaze him. “Even if that had been her intention, Sentinel, Ultra Magnus wouldn’t have had anything to do with it. He left his post. I’m sure you remember that.”

“And why wouldn’t he have any say over it?”

**_“BECAUSE HE CHOSE ME AS HIS SUCCESSOR SO I’M THE ONE THAT HOLDS THAT POWER IN MY SERVOS!”_ **

Optimus then realized that he had both of his servos curled into fists, and his outburst made Sentinel look absolutely afraid. A knock came at the door. Kup’s voice filtered through; “You alright in there kid?”

Sighing heavily, the Magnus turned his helm towards the door. “Everything’s okay, Kup. I’ll be out in a few kliks.” He turned back to Sentinel, trying not to laugh at the wide optic’d expression on the Prime’s faceplates. After composing himself, Optimus continued, “I and the High Council are the ones that has everything to do with Megatron’s eventual fate. And right now, he stays alive to make sure that Ultra Magnus’s sparkling lives. Nitro could have come and pleaded her case to me, if it was that important to her.”

Sentinel tightened his lipplates. “Her creators died in a Decepticon invasion when she was a sparkling.”

“We’ve all lost someone dear to us. Doesn’t mean we go and kill someone that’s innocent of everything.”

“Ultra Magnus isn’t innocent in the least bit!”

“No he’s not, but none of us are. None of us but that sparkling he’s carrying.” Optimus glared at the Prime. “We’re going to track your communications and movements for the foreseeable future, Sentinel.” He walked over to the door, knocked on it, and when Kup opened it he looked pointedly at Sentinel. “Get out of here.”

The Prime returned the glare and didn’t acknowledge Kup’s presence as he left the interrogation room.

Once Sentinel was out of hearing range, Kup took the cy-gar out of his mouth and gave a feigned pout. “Was really hopin’ to get to take ‘im to Trypticon.”

Optimus gave a resigned sigh. “There’s not enough evidence that he was part of it. He probably wasn’t, for all we know.”

“What’d the slagger say?”

“He said that he gave Nitro the information since she wanted to make a case to execute Megatron immediately instead of waiting. I want to think that he’s lying, but he’s so dense that I believe him.”

“Yeah well, ‘lieve it or not,” Kup stuck the cy-gar back in, “so do I.”

Optimus put a servo over his forehelm. “I’m going to contact the High Council and Trypticon Prison and let them know the outcome of this interrogation. I’ll need to know the results of their interrogations of the assassins too.” He sighed and removed the servo. “I can’t believe it was three of our own.”

“Happens, sadly. Longarm got far ‘nough to be Prime before we learned he was Shockwave.”

The Magnus thought of the interactions he’d had with Longarm, and shuddered to think that the Decepticon had managed to fly so far under the radar. “Yeah. Yeah he did.”

.-.-.

Ultra had been invading his dreams again, against his attempts to try and put the old Magnus out of his processor. Recharge was filled with memories of being beaten back by the Magnus Hammer with Ultra wielding it, and it would always end with the image of the old Autobot standing in front of him, separated by the bars of the cell, telling him that he wanted the sparkling to know their sire.

But what was the use, Megatron would argue with his dream, if he was going to be dying so soon.

Onlining his optics to the ceiling, Megatron grumbled out of sheer boredom. He sat up, looked at the pitifully small collection of datapads that he’d been given when he’d requested  _ something _ to do, and plucked one at random. 

It was one about astrophysics - and it was  _ incredibly  _ outdated, by the looks of it. However, it was the one he’d read probably only once of this little quartet of books, so he figured it was worth it to give it another go.

At that moment, the door leading to the hallway opened, and Cyclone appeared outside the cell. Megatron stared at her for a brief pause, then sighed. “What is it?”

“Since this does concern your sparkling, I was told to inform you that Ultra Magnus was the target of an assassination attempt a few cycles ago.”

That got the warlord’s attention. He lifted his helm a few micrometers, staring at the guard and blinking his optics as he processed what she had said. “Is he…” he started, then trailed off. “Are he and the sparkling-”

“They’re both fine. The ones that tried to do him in are a couple of floors above you,” Cyclone made a gesturing motion with her servo for added measure.

“Were they Decepticons?” If they were, Megatron would have been surprised, for as far as he was aware, his Decepticons that weren’t imprisoned had gone offline during the course of the war. If they were, he had no way to contact them.

The shake of Cyclone’s helm in the negative came as a somewhat bigger surprise, though Megatron surmised that if it hadn’t been Decepticons, Autobots would have been his second guess. “From what we understand it was a small group that are part of an organization of that want you taken offline sooner rather than later. Killing Ultra and the sparkling was probably their way of making that happen.”

“So, they were Autobots then.”

The guard nodded her helm in affirmation. Megatron stared at her a moment, then gave a short laugh. “Interfactional betrayal is a thing even on the Autobot side, apparently. And I’d been lead to believe that things were always harmonious among them.”

“Not always,” Cyclone said bluntly. “We’ll let you know their statuses as we hear them.” Cyclone said nothing more as she walked out of the room, leaving Megatron alone once more.

Between the time that he’d been told of the attempt and then assured that Ultra and their sparkling were safe, Megatron had felt genuine fear in his spark and processor. The prospect of living while Ultra and their bitlet were offline was - dare he say it - too much for him to actually think about. But he was elated that they had survived the attempt.

Chuckling darkly, Megatron closed his optics and imagined a timeline where he was still free and could order his Decepticons to do whatever he wished. The thought of these faceless Autobots being taken offline in retribution for what they had tried to do to Ultra and their sparkling brought a smile to his faceplates. A pity that he didn’t have any Decepticons on the outside to command from within.

To no one in particular, he murmured, “The things I would do for you.”


	18. Who Cares About the Thing I Did That Night

Opening his optics, he saw the glint of the blade.

It hovered over his spark, then sunk in, sickening noise of cutting metal, protoform, and spark casing echoing.

He screamed. Pain and agony were all he knew and felt. The sparkling’s panicked, unheard wails reverberated in his processor.

And then his optics really opened, and there was no blade to be seen. The only thing that glinted was his armor in the moonlight streaming through the window.

He stared at the ceiling, clutching the thermal sheet that covered him as he tried to steady his inhalation rate. Mercifully, the sparkling seemed to be asleep, not having been woken up by the sudden jolt of his spark.

A gentle knock came at his door a few moments later, one that he recognized as Jazz’s. The cyberninja peeked in, visor bright in the dark. “You alright sir?”

Ultra curled his servos into fists and sighed. “Another nightmare, Jazz. I’ll be fine.”

Jazz came in and stood at the side of the berth, peering down at the Magnus. “‘s what you said last night, and the night ‘fore that.”

“I’m  _ fine _ .”

He could feel the judging look that the cyberninja was giving him. The other mech’s shoulder struts simply dropped after a few moments, and then Jazz sighed. “If you say so, sir.”

Ultra watched as he turned on his heel and walked out of the berthroom, closing the door a little more firmly than necessary. The noise, while definitely not as loud as it could have been, was still apparently enough to rouse the bitlet from their recharge. Sighing at the movement he felt, Ultra placed a servo over his firm middle and then used his other one to give him the leverage he needed to sit up in berth.

For a while he simply sat there, feeling the sparkling moving. Each time the bitlet fluttered, he thought of the panic that had surged in his spark, not entirely his own. It could have been the very last thing that they felt.

He then got up from his berth and wandered out into the common room, looking at Jazz and Bumblebee in recharge before he quietly opened the back doors and sat himself in the nearest seat to look at the mountains. The air was cool, the stars bright, and the sparkling seemed to at least enjoy some of the activity.

Ultra tapped his digits on his middle, trying to smile when the sparkling tapped back in response but finding it hard to do so. He sighed and leaned back in the chair, looking up at the stars.

He must have been far more tired than he’d realized, as the next thing he knew he had two sets of servos on him. He woke up with a shout, gasping and grabbing the servos on him, blinking up at the pair of optics and visor staring down at him.

“Whoa, chill, it’s us,” Bumblebee said, optics wide. 

“Freaked a bit when we didn’ find you in your berth, sir,” Jazz said quietly, helping Ultra off the seat. “You know you shouldn’ be strainin’ yourself like that.”

“It wasn’t a strenuous task, Jazz. I think walking a short distance from my berth to the back porch should be fine.”

Jazz got a quirk on his faceplates that was fleeting. “Gonna want to tell that to Red an’ Ratchet when we bring ya inside.”

Right. The checkups had been made a thing for every solar cycle. He had a spare room that wasn’t his, the sparkling’s, or the small office that he said that Red Alert and Ratchet should just take up residence in, but they insisted on the trek.

Both medics were on one of the long seats when Ultra was helped in and placed in a seat next to the door. Red Alert and Ratchet immediately got to their pedes and got to his side. Ultra simply sat back and sighed, letting time pass by as both medics proceeded to scan him.

“Fine for now,” Ratchet said, breaking Ultra out of his trance. The former Magnus started, stared, and then nodded. He made a motion like he was going to get out of the seat, but then Red Alert placed a servo on his shoulder strut, prompting him to look at her curiously.

“We’d like to discuss something with you.”

The tone in Red’s voice told him that he was going to stay and hear it, and damn what he truly wanted. Ultra beat back his want to protest and sighed. “What is it regarding?”

There was a brief period of silence as the medics, cyberninja, and cadet all looked amongst each other. Jazz crossed his arms over his chassis, Bumblebee showed a sudden intense interest in the datapads shelved along the wall, and Ratchet cleared his vocalizer and stared outside.

“We’ve talked it over, and given everything that’s happened recently, you should really consider seeing a therapist, Ultra,” Red said, voice gentle.

Ultra bristled at the suggestion, going into a defensive mode. “Red Alert, I am fine. It’ll just take some time for me to… come to terms with it.”

“Ultra,” Red Alert’s voice had changed to one of firmness from its previous gentility, “Jazz and Bumblebee have reported that you’ve been having nightmares every night cycle since you were almost killed. And that each successive time, it takes you longer to snap out of it.”

“Red, I’m fine, I’ll get over it.”

“But what if you don’t? Something else could trigger an intense reaction out of you. The night does. Soon it might be anything sharp that isn’t necessarily a blade.”

“Red-”

She cut him off and continued. “It might be loud noises. Your sparkling might one day do something by accident, play with something sharp, or scream while playing. You don’t know how you’ll react.” The medic put her servos to her hips. “If not for us, if not for yourself, consider it on behalf of your sparkling.”

The former Magnus fell quiet and turned his helm to stare out the window, mountain peaks standing tall against the backdrop of the sunny sky. 

“We’re tryin’ ta make sure that you’ll be sound ‘nough to take care of your bitlet. And from what we’re hearin’,” Ratchet cleared his vocalizer before he continued, “doesn’ sound like you are.”

Ultra curled his servos into fists, keeping them where they lay on his thighs. It was four against one, and he knew what battles were worth fighting. He turned his gaze from the outside to the four bots standing around the common room. After a few more moments of pause, he sighed in resignation. “How many sessions do you believe I need?”

Red Alert shrugged her shoulders. “It’s going to be up to Rung to decide on that. It could be three sessions, or it could be thirty.”

“Rung?” Ultra knew the name - the main therapist for those at Fortress Maximus. He’d heard his praises sung amongst his colleagues that went to him. “Would Optimus-”

“Already spoke to the kid, he said whatever you need,” Ratchet said gruffly, crossing his own arms over his chassis. “We can get him over here so you don’ have to wander out back to Fort Max. Take advantage of what ya can ‘fore your sparklin’ gets here.”

“I don’t like the phrase “take advantage,” but I understand.” Knowing there was no way out of this, Ultra tapped his digits on his knee. “I’ll commit to five, and then I will see where we go from there.”

“Done. I’ll let the kid know.”

.-.-.

Rung was… very small. That was the first impression that Ultra got of the little psychologist when he wandered into the little office by his berthroom, looking so lost and out of it. He cleared his vocalizer, prompting the mech to look at him as if in surprise. “You are in the right place, I assure you.”

“Oh I know,” Rung said gently, waving a servo and blinking his large optics at Ultra. He moved a servo to his faceplates and then came away with a pair of lenses that helped Ultra realize that the optics weren’t as big as he’d thought they were. “I was simply late in realizing the view you have from here. The mountains are quite gorgeous.”

Something about the little mech put Ultra at ease. He smiled and nodded. “I remember when Powered Convoy had this place first built, he received some pushback because the range was thought to be dying.”

“It certainly isn’t dying now,” Rung said. “Those are some of the most beautiful flora I’ve seen on any planet.”

“Miraculous what eons of off-planet fighting can do to revive it, isn’t it?”

“Indeed! But, small talk is not what I’m here for.” Rung perched himself in one of the seats across from the long one that Ultra reclined in, and Ultra had to hold back a laugh at how impossibly tiny Rung was - he was the same height as Bumblebee, but he looked so frail, as if one careless sweep of an arm would send him flying into the nearest wall.

Sighing, Ultra nodded. “I know. I know.”

“So, what we can do - if you’re comfortable with it, of course - is have you go from the beginning. Start off whenever you want, at what point you want. I’m just here to listen for now, and I’m not here to judge.” Rung put his servos together, twining the slim fingers, and rested his chin on them. 

Ultra didn’t know  _ where _ to even begin. His life-cycle had been so long, and to tell all the things he’d been through… he’d need far more time than was allotted for this particular session. 

Almost as if he’d been able to read his thoughts, Rung spoke again. “If you’re having trouble deciding what to speak of, we can start with something that is a lot fresher in your memory.” He adjusted himself on the chair. “I’m aware that recently you were a victim of an organized attempt on your life.”

_ Blade puncturing his spark chamber, echoes of a sparkling wailing its first and last… _

Ultra curled a servo into a fist and lay it on his knee to ground himself. He gave a short nod. “My sparkling was the main target, but yes, it was on both our lives.”

“What were your thoughts when it was happening?”

A corner of Ultra’s lipplates twitched as he forced himself to remember what he hadn’t wanted to. “I…,” he trailed off and paused for a moment. “I thought about how my sparkling hadn’t had a chance yet to live. How I hadn’t had a chance to see them, see their optics open, get to know them. I thought about how I needed to come to their defense and protect them.”

“By all accounts you did your job as a carrier in protecting them. How have you fared since that night cycle?”

He tensed up, knowing full well that Rung had probably been told something by Red Alert and Ratchet, wanting to tell the little psychologist that he should already know. But he looked again at the inquisitive faceplates and then answered after another pause. “Not well.”

“Could you tell me how you’ve been coping since the attack?”

Nightmares. Screaming sparklings, blades with moonlight glinting off the sharp edge. Waking up startled, scared, paranoid that he’d let his guard down once more, that he’d left the window open to another attempt on himself and his bitlet.

He went into a trance for quite a while, because the sound of Rung clearing his vocalizer prompted him to realize that a couple of kliks had passed. “It’s okay if you don’t want to say anything for now. It’s still very fresh on your processor.”

“No. I’m sorry. It’s just…” Ultra trailed off, closed his optics, and sighed. “I haven’t been coping. I thought that I was, but according to everyone that has been around me for more than a solar cycle, I’m getting worse as the night cycles pass.”

“I see. I would just like to hear it from you directly, but could you tell me what has been happening?”

“Nightmares. As I’ve been told, it’s taking me longer each night cycle to… how did Red Alert put it? I believe she said “snap out of it.””

“Do the nightmares last longer each night cycle?”

Ultra was a little confused. He furrowed his optic ridges and tilted his helm at Rung. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, do you find that your nightmares last longer every night? Do things happen in them that didn’t happen the previous night? Is that what is taking you so long to recover from them?”

“I… I couldn’t begin to tell you.” Ultra heaved a wearied sigh. “They feel they last the same amount of time. I don’t know what they mean by that it takes me longer to recover from them.”

“That’s fine, it’s simply something we can explore later on. Now,” Rung untwined his digits and placed his servos in his lap, “is there something that you feel we can do over time to help you in these sessions? Are there any long-term goals you would like to note down?”

Thinking hard about it, Ultra nodded. “I have to make sure I can take care of my sparkling. That is my end goal.” He looked down at his swollen middle, frowning slightly at the sudden lack of movement. A little ping sent the sparkling’s way was acknowledged and the bitlet fluttered, putting his spark at ease. “I have to go through this entirely alone. It would be ideal if the sire of my sparkling were with me.”

“But it’s not possible.”

“No, it’s not.” Ultra gave a sardonic laugh. “Of all the mechs and femmes I could have conceived a sparkling with, I chose the one that’s killed more beings than have ever lived.”

“It was a rather unorthodox joining.”

“That’s putting it lightly.” Without really thinking further on it, the former Magnus placed his servo over his faceplate and sighed. “I had resigned myself to doing this entirely alone. Part of myself wanted Megatron to at least acknowledge that we would -  _ will  _ \- be having a sparkling. It is part his, but he refused.” Ultra let the words hang in the air a bit, and when he snapped out of it again he noticed that Rung had resumed his previous position of fingers laced together, chin on them. “I know why he refused.”

“Why do you think he refused to do so?”

“I can’t save him. No one in their right processor would save him from having to be executed.”

“When is that scheduled for?”

“A few decacycles after this one emerges,” Ultra said quietly, stroking his middle. “We have to give him time to get strong enough before…”

“Before?”

Ultra sighed. “Before Megatron is taken offline. Given that I never bonded to Megatron, my chances of possibly being affected are slim, but I and Ratchet and Red Alert are not sure how he will react to his sire going offline.”

Rung looked like he had a little idea in his processor. Ultra was tempted to ask what it was, but then Rung spoke before he could. “How would you feel about having Megatron with you? Do you foresee it being a positive interaction or something negative?”

Rung wasn’t serious - he couldn’t be. Ultra stared and blinked his optics in disbelief. “I’m… I’m not sure. I would like it if he would agree to it, but…”

“But?”

“I… I don’t know. Are you-”

“It’s not a guarantee. But I believe that bringing Megatron around you might be beneficial for you both.”

Ultra blinked his optics and merely stared. Then he nodded. “I’d be willing to try if he is.”

.-.-.

“Yer seriously suggestin’ that we let  _ Megatron  _ out an’ come with us?!”

Red Alert had the same sentiments, but frankly Ratchet was far better at expressing incredulity than she was. She simply crossed her arms over her chassis and gave Rung a stern look. “I won’t say outright that I regret having you come speak to Ultra, because I don’t, but you have to look at the circumstances, Rung.”

Rung managed to stand his own, staring at them through his large lenses. “I have. Don’t think I’m suggesting this lightly, both of you, but you brought me here to do this job, and this is what I believe will be one of the better things we can do for him.”

“Did he say specifically he wanted to have Megatron with him?”

“He is willing if Megatron is. He said himself that it pains him that he’s going to go through this alone.”

“We are there with him, almost all the time!”

“Yes, but none of you  _ sired  _ this sparkling on him. He wants the sire with him. Megatron has had no incidents of violence since entering Trypticon. So far he’s modeled rather exemplary behavior.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have my contacts, Red Alert.”

Red Alert narrowed her optics at him, then threw her servos in the air in a gesture of both frustration and surrender. “We’re going to hold you responsible if something happens to either Ultra or the sparkling.”

“I’m extremely certain nothing will. From my own readings, the correlation is there, but there are factors to be considered. If Ultra begins to show any signs of not benefiting from Megatron’s presence, I will happily admit defeat and hand care of him over to another of my colleagues.”

Ratchet sighed. “Fine, fine. The kid’s not gonna be happy about all this slag.”

.-.-.

For the past three solar cycles, Ultra had been berating himself for answering as he did.

It had been the sparkling. It was entirely the sparkling having an effect on him, telling him that it wanted its sire around. It had to have been them.

Logically he knew it was more than likely not a very good idea. Megatron was going to go offline soon, and he couldn’t do anything about it. There was no use in bringing an offline mech still walking around himself and his sparkling.

Ultra stood outside on the front patio, arms crossed over his chassis as he tried to quell the rapid fluttering of his spark. Jazz was to his left, tapping a pede. Bumblebee was inside and too afraid to come out. Ratchet was to his right, grousing about blasted Decepticons and how he would love to take Megatron’s helm off if the warlord tried anything.

The spot on the horizon grew larger as the transport from Trypticon neared them. With each passing moment, the former Magnus’s spark grew more and more restless. The sparkling seemed to pick up on the emotion too, as he woke up and began to kick and squirm. Ultra laid a servo over his belly in a gesture of comfort, though he didn’t know if it was more for his sake or the sparkling’s.

“Still can’t believe the kid agreed to this.”

“Wasn’t just him. Rest of the High Council had to say somethin’ too,” Jazz replied to Ratchet. “Some point Optimus’s power’s gotta run out.”

“But it didn’t this time,” Ultra said firmly, tone signaling that he didn’t want to hear any more. “I was told to take what could be given to me, and I intend to.”

Ratchet muttered something to his side.

The transport vehicle pulled up a fair distance from the home, stopping and shutting off. After a few moments of tense silence, the back opened up and four Elite Guardbots hopped out, followed by the hulking visage of the Decepticon warlord. Megatron was in chains - a visage that made Ultra very uncomfortable. The four Guardbots checked over Megatron, and then after a few more nanokliks, the chains were dropped.

Megatron looked surprised.

“We’ll be back for him when we receive the word,” one of the Elites said as they boarded the transport again.

Ultra didn’t look at them, didn’t notice the transport come online and head back to Trypticon as he slowly walked and descended the steps of the patio to the almost-pathetic visage of the Decepticon warlord standing among mountains, looking lost. Megatron looked up, his optics brightening as they met Ultra’s gaze.

The former Magnus stood in front of the warlord, helm raised almost as if in defiance. Both mechs stared at one another for a few sparkbeats, until Megatron cleared his vocalizer.

“I have to say, I’m glad that you and our sparkling are functioning.”

Ultra blinked and stared at Megatron. “Did you know?”

Megatron smiled sheepishly. “I was informed, yes. I’m very glad that it didn’t work.”

Returning the smile, Ultra turned and walked back towards the lights. This time, Megatron was able to follow.


	19. For A Little Touch of Heavenly Light

_ Blades of moonlight, sparklings screaming and singing in his helm. _

_ Somewhere in the dark, rolling distance, he heard a voice call for him. _

“Ultra.”

Gasping and reaching out to the servo that found his for an anchor, Ultra laid his helm back in berth and stared at the ceiling. The servo holding his squeezed very gently.

“It was just another nightmare. You’re fine. I’m here.”

Ultra managed to calm himself down and look to his side at the pair of vermillion optics gazing at him. He nodded. “I’m sorry.”

Megatron said nothing, only gently scooting closer to the gravid mech and stroking his long digits along his side. Before recently, Ultra hadn’t had an opportunity how much he enjoyed that sensation, how much it calmed him. He closed his optics and half-buried his faceplates into Megatron’s chassis.

Rung had said over the past few sessions that he seemed to be handling himself better. The occurrences of nightmares of diminishing, and while he still reacted to sudden, unexpected touches, he didn’t yell as if he were anticipating an assault.

But with each nightmare he had, Ultra felt like his progress waned. A step forward followed by two steps back. Spark calmed significantly, Ultra’s systems hummed quietly. He reached out along the creator-creation bond for the sparkling, and was greeted with a series of flutters.

“You are doing much better than the first cycle I was here.”

Half-wondering if Megatron had learned to read his processor, Ultra turned his helm slightly so their optics met. “I’ve been told,” he said softly. “But I have trouble believing it.”

“You’re far too harsh on yourself.”

“It’s a little difficult not to be.”

Megatron chuckled quietly. “Well, it is understandable. After countless attempts on my own life earlier in the war,” Megatron murmured, gazing off somewhere over one of Ultra’s massive shoulders, “I learned to live with the nightmares that come with them. But I remember the first few times were possibly the hardest for me to endure.”

Ultra reached a servo out and gently ran the tips of his digits over Megatron’s faceplates, meant to be a comforting gesture, which prompted the old warlord to stare at him curiously. Thinking that he’d crossed a boundary, Ultra pulled his servo back but Megatron then moved a servo to grab at his.

“I didn’t say you could stop.”

Ultra resumed the caresses, smile breaking out across his faceplates. “You didn’t give note that you liked it either.”

“I do.” Megatron leaned his helm into the light touches. “I’ve never been touched like this before.”

The old Magnus sighed. “How did you handle the first few times there were attempts on your life?”

“I simply killed whomever tried to.”

“And here I believed you were a crusader for non-violence,” Ultra replied dryly. “No, what I meant was, how did you handle yourself regarding the nightmares you had?”

Megatron’s vermillion optics softened. “It was a long time ago. I started to try and force myself to wake each time one began. After some time it actually began to work.”

Both mechs lay in silence.

Ultra cleared his vocalizer. “It’s only been twice for me. Shockwave’s attempt… was scary. But I could handle it. The more recent one, I wasn’t the only one whose spark was on the line.” With his other servo, he stroked the curve of his belly. “I was afraid for the sparkling.”

The bitlet gifted him with a swift kick at that moment, making Ultra grunt in mixed surprise and pain and glare down at his swollen middle. “That wasn’t nice.”

He heard the sound of Megatron stifling laughter. He thunked the warlord on his chassis with the back of the servo that had been stroking his face. “And that’s not nice of you either.”

.-.-.

The sessions with Rung were always taxing mentally and emotionally, just as the exams that Ratchet and Red Alert performed every solar cycle (though they seemed to be doing it every half a solar cycle at this point). Whenever they ended, Ultra had to retreat to the back patio and sit to recuperate, just as he was doing now. He interlaced his digits together and rested them on the curve of his middle, sighing as he tried to put the solar cycle’s events out of his processor.

As always, after he’d had a few kliks to himself, he heard the sound of the door opening and closing. He didn’t need to look up to see whom it was. 

“How was it?”

Ultra shook his helm in the negative. “I don’t wish to talk about it.”

He saw Megatron bristle out of the corner of his optics. “What happened?”

“I won’t extrapolate on it. I’m too exhausted. But it is neither Rung nor Red Alert and Ratchet’s fault. I don’t want you to strike out at them.” Ultra quietly scooted into Megatron’s side and moved one of his servos to rest on the warlord’s thigh.

Both mechs sat there, looking out at the mountains for a little while. Ultra closed his optics and leaned his helm back. 

“If you won’t say what happened,” Megatron said after a period of silence, “then at least tell me that our sparkling is fine.”

“He’s fine.” Ultra shifted where he sat. “I’m close to emergence. It’s only a matter of time before we can see his faceplates.”

Megatron looked at him curiously. “So it’s definitely a mechling?”

Ultra stayed quiet, and then shook his hem. “I haven’t asked for confirmation yet.”

“Then what makes you so certain it’s a mech?”

“I can’t see us having a femme,” Ultra said dryly, keeping his optics on the mountains. 

A servo came into his view and gentle digits turned his helm to look into vermillion optics. Megatron got a smirk on his own faceplates, and how Ultra wanted to playfully smack it off. “Stranger things have happened.”

Ultra smirked back and batted the servo away from his face. “Then do we have a bet?”

Megatron’s optics widened slightly and then brightened. “We do, if you wish.” He smiled. “If we have a femme, I win.”

“If we have a mechling, I win.” Then Ultra paused and stared at the warlord. “What do either of us win?”

The corners of Megatron’s lipplates twitched. “Simply the satisfaction of winning.”

Ultra smiled back and gently pecked the other mech on his mouth. “Then a bet it is. I bet on a mechling, you bet on a femme. But given that I am the one carrying this one,” he stroked his swollen midsection, “I think I know a little more.”

“Yet you refuse to know for sure so we can settle on designations.”

Megatron had him there. Ultra simply leveled a fake-glare at him, which made the slag-eating grin on Megatron’s faceplates get a little wider. “I have my reasons.”

“Despite these reasons you profess to have, it’s still in the sparkling’s best interests to think of multiple designations to choose from.” Megatron bunted his helm against the old Magnus’s. “So have you thought of any?”

Ultra ran his digits over his belly and sighed. “I’ve thought of a few. I enjoy the way “Trion” rolls off the glossa. I’m also fond of the designation “Apollo”.”

“I’ve never heard that one.”

“It’s a name from Earth. When the Elite Guard went to Earth to retrieve the AllSpark, I read some of the mythologies regarding their deities on a datapad. Apollo is one. Zeus was the leader of them.”

That named seemed to pique Megatron’s interest. Ultra gestured at the door. “I still have the datapad. It’s in my office, top left drawer of my desk, if you’re interested in reading it.”

The warlord stood up and nodded, and Ultra watched as the mech made his way back inside. After a few moments, he smiled and looked back at the mountainous peaks in the distance. “I think you’ll tell us your name when you’re ready, little one. What do you think?”

In response the bitlet did a series of thumps along his side.

Megatron immediately came back, datapad in servo, red optics engrossed in the text. Ultra reached a servo out for it, but Megatron either didn’t see it or didn’t care as he settled back in next to the old Magnus. Ultra kept his optics on the warlord, and moved his outstretched servo to stroke Megatron’s faceplates for a few moments before putting it on his heavy middle.

The warlord chose that moment to look up. “I like the name Artemis.”

Ultra must have twisted his faceplates into something resembling distaste, because Megatron gave him a glare, but he paid it no mind as he commented, “Our sparkling doesn’t feel like an Artemis.”

“And I don’t think they feel like a Trion or an Apollo.”

Ultra half-playfully shoved the warlord with a pede. “So you enjoy the name Zeus, then?”

“The name Zeus denotes power, and that will strike terror into the sparks of their enemies!”

“And it is my hope that our sparkling won’t grow up in a universe that necessitates having enemies.”

Megatron looked back at the datapad. “I still insist on Zeus for a mechling or a femmeling.”

Ultra leaned back in the seat. He was more than certain that he carried a mech, but in the slim chance that he was wrong… he cleared his vocalizer. “Are there any other names that catch your optic?”

“By going down this list, a few,” Megatron said slowly, and then began reading some off. Asterope, Astraea, Atlas, Europa, Orion, Pallas, Pandora. All beautiful, but as Ultra felt the bitlet stirring and moving, he wasn’t sure if any of those really fit the sparkling. 

“-Strika would be a wonderful name for her, or perhaps Skystreamer,” Megatron was saying when Ultra began to pay attention again.

“Our sparkling is not a seeker, that much we know, so no to Skystreamer. And I don’t feel comfortable naming my sparkling “Strika.” The name denotes war. I don’t want to jinx our sparkling’s future.” Ultra shifted where he sat and looked at Megatron. “What do the names mean?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What do the designations you just told me mean? It’s been a little while since I read them, but I want to know what deity they represent, or what meaning they have.”

Megatron tilted the datapad toward him so both could look at the names at the same time. Ultra lifted a digit and began scrolling, pausing at each name.

Asterope. There was no meaning listed, so he struck that one out.

Astraea. A goddess of purity and innocence. Possibly.

Atlas. A god of sorts, a Titan holding the sky on his shoulder struts. He liked that way that one rolled off the glossa.

Europa. No meaning he could discern, only that she was a major figure in this Earth mythology.

Orion. A hunter and also the name of a constellation that the humans saw from their planet. It was a noble sounding designation, but he knew a lot of mechs with a derivative of that name, so it was pushed toward the bottom of the list.

Pallas. There were many figures named Pallas in this text, and he didn’t like the sound of any of them.

Pandora. A human who played a major part in Earth’s myths, name meaning “all-giving,” but also apparently responsible for the evil that existed on the organic planet. Though he knew it was fiction, he wasn’t sure he liked the connotation.

Ultra cleared his vocalizer. “I like Astraea and Atlas the most of this list.”

Megatron pulled the datapad away and looked again at the text. Ultra placed a servo on the warlord’s arm and sighed quietly. Now he called everything into doubt. “But, Zeus might be a better fit for them. I don’t think we’ll know for certain until we see their face.”

The warlord looked at him, almost as if measuring him up and thinking, and then nodded.

“Our bet is still on, however,” Ultra said with a smirk. “I’m going to laugh in your faceplates if we have a mech.”

The corners of the grey mech’s mouth twitched and lifted up. “And I’ll gloat if we have a femme.”

For a little while longer the both of them leaned into one another, Ultra’s servos stroking his swollen belly as they watched the sun set and Cybertron’s moons rise over the mountain range.

.-.-.

Optimus looked at the moon rising, leaning against the rails of the balcony attached to his quarters, and wondered how often Ultra Magnus had done this. He drummed his digits against the metal rails before pulling back and wandering back into his office.

Two datapads rested on the surface of the desk. The first one he picked up was from Rung, but he could read that later on. The second datapad was what he’d been told to expect and what he’d been waiting for. When he turned it on, he noted the rather brief nature of the note included within. Cyclone had written down the results of the interrogations of the group of bots found complicit in the attempted assassination of his predecessor - it was the three of them that did the acting, but they refused to rat out the other members of their organization.

What Optimus found most scary was that there could be more of them lurking in the ranks of the Elite Guard. There could probably be another attempt on the way. He would have to order Cliffjumper, newly installed overseer of telecommunications on Cybertron, to keep an optic out, and for Kup to do periodic inspections of the Elites.

As for Sentinel… despite how harshly he’d come down on the Prime, Optimus was glad to see that he’d proved once and for all that he had no servo in this entire affair. As dense and as fragging idiotic as his once-friend was, he had hoped that his instinct was right when he’d come to his defense, saying that Sentinel wasn’t capable of the charges almost brought against him.

There was to be no trial like had been granted with Megatron. The three had admitted their guilt i the attempt, and just as with Shockwave, the penalty for the attempt on a ruling Magnus’s life was permanent imprisonment.

At least the Decepticon spy and the Autobot renegades had something to bond over, Optimus thought bitterly as he set the datapad down and picked up the other one from Rung.

Being a practitioner, Rung was held to strict patient confidentiality rules, but Ultra had given the therapist written permission to write notes to his successor, noting his progress if any. It was crucial evidence that Optimus would need to petition the High Council to allow Rung to continue seeing Ultra, if he decided that more sessions were necessary.

Optimus sat down behind the desk and turned the datapad on, reading through the notes from the five sessions that had been had with the little therapist thus far. In the first session, Rung had noted how melancholic and withdrawn Ultra had been, the research he’d done into the information that Ratchet and Red Alert had given him, and the connection he drew that strengthened his argument for Ultra to have Megatron with him for the little time that remained until the sparkling’s emergence.

The High Council had thrown a fit, but Alpha Trion sided with him after a long argument in the High Council chambers. After further argument, Botanica had changed her vote, leaving Perceptor the lone dissenter of the bunch.

What a weird set of leaders of Cybertron they all were, Optimus Magnus thought to himself as he scrolled down to the notes of subsequent appointments. Rung noted a decreased sense of anxiety about another attack coming, and there were notes from Jazz and Bumblebee about how the frequency of the old mech’s nightmares had decreased. 

He didn’t quite believe his optics when he read how the atmosphere at Ultra’s abode had changed, become calmer, with Megatron around. Optimus supposed that the neutralization of the big, scary warlord’s weapons had really had an effect on his temperament.

A thought seized him - what would happen once the sparkling was born, and Megatron returned to Trypticon? Had anyone else thought of that? Surely Rung, or Ultra, had to have thought of that. Megatron would probably put up a fight when he was taken away. How would Ultra or the sparkling fare?

They had to be fine. He wasn’t skilled in those areas. Optimus tried to comfort himself by thinking of how Ratchet and Red Alert left him to his devices when it came to his leadership, and he should leave them and the little therapist to their devices. 

They knew better than he did.


	20. Under Starless Skies We Are Lost

Servos stroking the length of his faceplates woke him up. Megatron’s optics onlined to a dark room and a pair of bright blue optics staring at him from the front.

“Ultra-”

His question died in his vocalizer as the old Magnus pounced, kissing him and pulling his face closer. The gravid bot was on the verge of sobbing, his servos roaming on Megatron’s chassis, begging for him to be touched in kind. Catching on, Megatron ran his tapered digits up and down Ultra’s over-sensitive sides, smirking at the wanton desire that Ultra’s field was infused with.

“Please,” Ultra whispered, trailing his servos up from Megatron’s broad chassis and cupping the warlord’s face with them as he kissed him hard, hungrily, hips moving in a way that Megatron knew he shouldn’t be moving them. “I need you in me.”

Those five words were the downfall of his restraint, and Megatron groaned loudly and tilted his helm back as his interface panel opened and his spike jutted out into the air. A servo wrapped around the length and stroked, making his own intakes hitch. He shook his helm and reached down, batting Ultra’s servo away from his spike. Placing his servos to Ultra’s hips, Megatron guided the gravid mech as he sank down onto his stiff spike. The noise that Ultra made would stay present in his dreams, a desperate moan as Ultra rolled on the spike, grinding his anterior node briefly against Megatron’s pelvic plating.

Ultra leaned forward again, almost aggressively kissing the warlord, servos gripping onto Megatron’s chassis as he began to ride the thick spike, and Megatron moaned at the way that Ultra’s valve fluttered around him.

“What brought this on?” Megatron murmured into Ultra’s mouth, shifting his hips into the gravid bot’s own. “You wanted to be left alone, growled at me, and now this?”

“Shut up,” Ultra hissed, and he did something with the calipers in his valve that drove Megatron near-mad, “and just let me have this.”

The warlord grunted and thrust his hips into Ultra’s, but then the concern over the state of Ultra’s frame in his gravid state overtook his processor. Megatron pulled back and shook his helm, gently grabbing Ultra’s side and guiding the pregnant mech to lie down and hovering over him.

At that moment, Ultra arched his hips upward and did his best to wrap his legs around the mech’s waist, bumping their arrays together. Megatron savoured the startled gasp of his name that came from Ultra’s vocalizer as he ground his hips against Ultra’s frame, spike not leaving the sopping valve. Lowering one servo, he stroked over the swell of Ultra’s belly that held their growing sparkling, before he trailed down even further and rubbed the tips of his digits over the other mech’s anterior node.

Ultra jerked slightly, a curse caught in his vocalizer. “Please,” he whispered, and it made Megatron’s spark flare to hear the other mech reduced to begging.

“As you wish,” he replied with a low growl, grabbing Magnus’s legs and lifting them even higher, holding them in his arms and to his sides as he rubbed and ground their pelvic plating together.

Ultra was on the verge of losing all control, optics wide, servos over his helm on the berth and curling his digits into his palm as he tried to get more of the thick spike into his valve. “Frag you,” he hissed, “and frag that spike you possess, you know how to make me come undone.”

“It is one of its varied talents,” Megatron chuckled as he began a slow tempo of thrusting, rolling his hips, and Primus he was in love with the sounds that the old Magnus could make, in love with the expressions of bliss and pleasure that came over his faceplates. 

The mech tried to snark back, asking, “What are the other talents?”

“This,” Megatron replied as he pressed Ultra’s legs a little more upward and thrust in deeper, and saw the look on Ultra’s faceplates that let him know he’d hit the very sensitive cluster of nodes at near the back of the mech’s valve. The keen that the heavy bot emitted struck Megatron somewhere in his spark, and he picked up the pace of his thrusts, panting with each slick slide of his spike into Ultra’s spasming valve.

Ultra was close, very close to overloading, so Megatron stopped and slipped out, laughing when Ultra growled at him. Before the old Autobot Commander could order his spike back between his thighs and making him lose control, the old warmonger slid further down the berth, cupping the other mech’s aft in both his servos as he dipped his helm down and nibbled on the swollen folds of Ultra’s leaking valve.

The gravid mech’s intakes stuttered and gasped. Hips arched into his mouth as he licked up the length of the moist folds, and Ultra’s vocalizer emitted an obscene moan, curling his digits into his palm again, this time with more pressure. His vents expelled hot air that brushed against Megatron’s faceplates even where he was, between the former Magnus’s powerful thighs. Megatron smirked and licked over Ultra’s anterior node before fixing his lipplates around it, suckling gently on the sensor cluster until Ultra almost screamed in overload. The warlord felt Ultra’s servos shoot to hold onto his helm, holding him at the apex of his thighs as he rode out his climax, gushing lubricants that flooded the warlord’s mouth.

He didn’t remove himself. Rather, Megatron moved so he could take all the liquid he could into his mouth, glossa lapping at the rim and then the walls of Ultra’s valve, salacious smirk ever-present on his faceplates as some primal part of the pregnant mech picked up on the new stimulation and his hips jerked against his face. Lifting one of his servos, Megatron shoved two digits into Ultra’s slick passage, thrusting them, curled them upwards as he continued to graze his dentae over the anterior node and lick up the wet folds again.

“M-M-Megatron!” Ultra gasped, tensing up and arching his back, crying out as he overloaded once, then twice more, in very quick succession. 

The warlord purred and then moved upwards again, curling over Ultra and seizing his lipplates in a very passionate kiss as he slid his spike back into the old Magnus’s valve, thrusting with sheer abandon, feeling the ridges of his spike rubbing against the sensor clusters. His inbuilt engine revved, his processor clouded over as he felt himself about to tip over, but he managed to pull his helm back and gasp as he finally -  _ finally  _ \- reached his own release. 

Beneath him, Ultra’s intakes hitched and his frame tensed up, and Megatron could tell even through his own searing bliss that the mech had overloaded a fourth time.

When his fugue had dissipated, Megatron looked down at the blissed-out expression on the other mech’s faceplates, and then gazed at the firm roundness of Ultra’s middle. Settling into Ultra’s side, he slowly and gingerly placed a servo to stroke along the curve. The sensors that lined his digits picked up the motions of the sparkling moving lazily under his touch. Fascinated, wanting to feel more, he laid the flat of his palm against the other mech, feeling the bitlet stir.

A bit of time passed before he’d realized that Ultra’s harsh vents had ceased. A pale servo covered Megatron’s darker one.

“That’s his back,” Ultra murmured quietly as he gently guided the larger servo to a spot just above the curve of his hips. “Here is his helm.”

Megatron looked up, meeting the dim blue optics, and asked, “How do you know?”

Ultra gave him a slight smile. “At this point in carrying, I just do.”

Megatron stared at him in wonder and then looked back at where his servo had been placed, trying to imagine how the sparkling was positioned. He tapped his digits there.

The gravid mech jolted at the same time that Megatron felt the sparkling jump. 

“Could you not do that, please?”

“I apologize,” Megatron admitted, truly remorseful and moving away. “I didn’t know what would happen.”

Ultra leveled a glare at him. “How would you react if someone aggressively tapped your helm?”

Oh. Yes. The warlord settled in beside the mech. “Not well.”

The former Magnus gave him a pointed look, and then softened his expression and stroked the swell of his belly. “There, little one,” he murmured quietly, “your sire’s just missing a few synapses.”

Megatron couldn’t exactly argue with that.

.-.-.

Ultra stirred awake after a while of recharge, looking to his side and seeing the large and formidable form of the Decepticon curled into his frame. He smiled and moved a servo, running his digits over Megatron’s grey helm. The warlord made a noise but didn’t wake.

Then Ultra turned his attention to the one that had woken him - the sparkling was busy performing acrobatic feats, kicking and squirming. 

“You’re quite active,” he said quietly, flitting his digits over his middle. Happy, almost aggressive thumps greeted him, and he chuckled. “Are you going to be like this when you’re out of there?”

The bitlet responded with a shove of a pede into his intakes, making him choke. He reset his vocalizer and tapped his digits on his middle. “That wasn’t very nice.”

Megatron shifted to his side, prompting him to look at the warlord as his red optics opened. “He doesn’t understand you. You do know that, don’t you?”

“I’m aware, but it doesn’t hurt to try and teach him some manners.”

Ultra still wasn’t comfortable with others touching his midsection, but he made a sole exception for medics and for the sire of his sparkling. He moved his servo aside to let the old despot touch the swell of his middle. The sparkling stopped stirring, and then resumed their antics, kicking directly into Megatron’s palm.

“He seems to dislike me.”

Noting the use of pronouns, Ultra smirked in satisfaction. “So have I won our little bet?”

Megatron gave him a look and mirrored the smirk. “No. She seems to dislike me.”

Losing the smirk, Ultra leaned forward and kissed Megatron on the lipplates before settling back into the little nest of mesh cushions and thermal sheets that he’d made out of his berth. He stared at the ceiling.

Both mechs lay in the quiet, listening to each other’s systems working - Ultra’s moreso, as his systems had to compensate for the added mass of a sparkling and had to keep the bitlet alive. 

Megatron broke the quiet. “I don’t want the sparkling to come,” he said quietly, and that got Ultra’s attention. The old Magnus closed his optics, inventing deeply to say something when the warlord continued, “I tried to distance myself from you, from the sparkling, from everything that was going on regarding my sentence, my execution… because I did not wish to form a bond.”

Ultra reopened his optics, seeing in his mind’s optic how Megatron had looked at him that moment in his cell. The want, the minute twitch of a servo wanting to extend past the bars, only for the old warlord to turn his back and claim he wanted to be left alone.

“A bond was going to form either way,” Ultra responded slowly, thinking back to the mountain of information in the datapads. “But, since you and I are not spark bonded… it is significantly less than what it could be.”

The deposed despot blinked his optics, which Ultra could tell from the very brief absence of red light in the dark, and then responded, “So when I go offline… the sparkling won’t feel anything?”

“We don’t know yet,” Ultra confessed. Unspoken words hung in the air -  _ that was why we’ve kept you online.  _

A very weary and heavy ex-vent came from the warlord’s systems, and Megatron scooched away from Ultra. Ultra found his digits stroking at air where a helm had been, blinked his optics, and stared after Megatron as he curled into himself, lying on his side.

“Megatron?” Ultra asked quietly after a few kliks of terse silence.

“I never should have asked you for that last frag.”

Ultra didn’t respond - but a small part of him was hurt.

“I’ve made many mistakes in my life cycle, but the biggest I made was asking you for that frag. I dreamed nightly about you, Ultra. From our very first encounter on the battlefield, I wanted you, and with my execution so close I thought I had nothing to lose by asking to spike you and see you come undone under me. As it so happens,” Megatron let out of a tortured, shaking, ex-vent, “I had everything to lose.”

Ultra stared at the warlord’s back, fighting back the emotion welling up in his optics and blinking it back. He reached out with one of his long arms, digits stroking the mech’s spinal strut. “I’m sorry.”

He’d been selfish. So incredibly selfish. He’d given in with the hope that Megatron wouldn’t be of much fuss at his trial. He’d kept the sparkling currently kicking and squirming in his frame because he wanted to, without any thought of how its sire would be affected. 

Megatron had been ready to come face-to-face with death, welcomed offlining, only for him to be kept alive by the whims of an old Magnus and the sparkling he carried.

“I’m so sorry for everything I’ve put you through since that moment. I was…”

“You were thinking of the sparkling. I know. I do not hold it against you, Ultra.” Megatron turned to look the former Autobot Commander in his optics.

A heavy weight sunk into Ultra’s spark. “You do. Admit it.”

The tired, exasperated expression on the warlord’s faceplates proved to the mech that it had just been words. Ultra gasped, processor swimming in a haze of guilt and self-beratement, and the emotions he’d been holding back came forward full-force. His armor shook on his frame, his intakes hitched and seized, and he was aware of Megatron coming over to him.

“I’m s-sorry Megatron,” he pleaded, wrapping his servos around the warlord’s arms, the first place he was able to reach, “please forgive me.”

“Ultra,” Megatron said gently, but said nothing more, and then it hit Ultra how ridiculous the situation was. The mech who was within decacycles of certain offlining, comforting him, the mech who had sentenced him to it.

His visual field chose that exact moment to start blaring alarms at him and insistently show him some sort of a warning. When he was able to calm himself down, he managed to read the message that it was showing him.

_ Emergence protocols activated. _

_ Dilation: 0.01% complete. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *does jazz hands*


	21. Somewhere Between Sorrow and Bliss

A ruckus had broken out mere nanokliks after Ultra sent the message to Red Alert and Ratchet that emergence that started. Through his pain both emotional and physical he swore he’d heard the sound of Bumblebee protesting as Jazz shooed him away, telling him to be the point of contact between them at the house and Optimus at Fort Max.

No matter. Right now he was busy trying to make sure he and the sparkling got through this as quickly as possible. He wanted this to be as painless as possible, but he was also at least realistic - there was no way this entire ordeal was going to be painless.

Ultra waddled over to the washrack for the third - or possibly fourth, he’d lost track - time in the past two cycles and curled his servos, placing them on the wall and pressing his forehelm against them as the liquid cascaded down his back struts. To his aching, frail, laboring frame it was absolute heaven.

He’d been so determined to seek something to quell the pain that he hadn’t noticed Megatron follow him in. Servos pressed against his lower back struts, prompting him to turn and look into the sorry red optics.

Ultra was on the verge of blaming Megatron for doing this to him before he remembered that it was his fault too, and another contraction surged through his frame. He moaned and thunked his forehelm onto the backs of his servos.

“Again?”

Resisting the urge to snap something he would later regret at Ratchet, Ultra growled. “You wouldn’t be judging me if you were going through this as well.”

The medic snorted, and the stream of cleaning fluid ceased as Ratchet turned it off and brought out some sort of instrument that Ultra didn’t care to look at. “And I pray I don’t. What’s your dilation status?”

Ultra checked, and grumbled when the number wasn’t as high as he hoped it would be. “Twenty-point-seven percent.”

Red Alert’s voice filtered in. “Believe it or not, you’re going about this faster than some of the cases we’ve come across in our research.”

“Well I hope it goes by faster,” Ultra said bitterly. “Now leave me alone, all of you. I need to be alone.”

There was a few moments of silence and he could see, with his processor’s optic, the two medics looking at one another.

“Now.”

Red Alert cleared her vocalizer. “We’ll be checking on you every quarter-cycle.”

He heard them exit the washracks, and then when he looked back to see if they’d really gone as far away as he’d hoped, he saw Megatron still standing there.

“I asked for privacy.”

The warlord gave him a look about as pointed as the one he was sure he’d given him. “I refuse to leave you alone.”

Ultra wanted to fight Megatron on that, but he found that he didn’t have the energy to do so. He sighed and pulled away from the wall. Going back to berth was an attractive option, but being up and as active as possible was recommended to help speed the process along.

And Primus knew how much he wanted this to be over with.

Digits reached out and stroked along his side. Ultra almost melted into the warlord’s arms, and he would have if it weren’t for the sudden and intense surge of pain that came through him. His legs buckled under the surprise pain, but he gripped Megatron’s arms and gasped, trying to breathe through it.

Then as suddenly as it had come, it slipped away, leaving a dull ache in its tracks.

“This is why I refuse to leave you to your own devices,” Ultra heard Megatron rumble quietly. “I don’t know what would have happened if I didn’t catch you.”

Ultra didn’t want to think about what could have happened. He huffed, his way of admitting defeat, and slowly pulled back. He placed a servo on his back and groaned. “I was told I should not be lying down, but right now I can’t think of anything else I would like to do.”

A large servo stroked the small of his backplates. “Would you like to walk outside?”

Outside had to be much better than being cooped up inside the house, where the walls felt like they were going to come crashing in. Ultra steeled himself and nodded, letting the old warlord guide him through the berthroom, the common room, out to the patio. There were steps that led off the patio and onto the ground, into the meadows rolling beneath the peaks of the mountains.

Ultra wanted to go there. He stared longingly at it for a moment, and Megatron managed to pick up on the nonverbal cue.

The walk was slow - he didn’t want to do anything more to exacerbate the injuries to his pelvic struts, or become so debilitated that Megatron wouldn’t be able to take him to Ratchet and Red Alert. The view was gorgeous, as always - it was no wonder that Powered Convoy had wanted to live the remainder of his expected life cycle there.

The indigenous flora made for soft padding as he sat down. How his aching systems welcomed the respite. He laid down flat on his back and closed his optics, feeling the sparkling moving restlessly.

_I want you out as much as you do. Patience, sparkling._

The sparkling pulsed impatience at him in response. He smiled and reopened his optics to see Megatron hovering above him.

“Why don’t you sit?”

The grey-armored warlord paused, and then took the invitation, lying down next to the blue-armored Magnus. After a period of silence, punctuated only by the sounds of Ultra’s intakes hitching whenever another contraction came and went, Megatron broke it completely. “I’ve never done this.”

Ultra turned his helm to try and look at him, but his shoulder strut was in the way. “Laid down? You lie down every night cycle-”

“Lie down outside.” Even with his limited viewpoint, Ultra could see how the warlord tensed up a little bit. “It’s far too open. Anything could happen.”

“Such as?”

“An aerial attack, among other things.”

Ultra stroked his digits along the curve of his middle. “We’re safe out here, I can assure you.”

The Decepticon warlord bristled. “Old habits are hard to break. I would think you’d know that yourself.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean it in that manner, I just…” Ultra trailed off and sighed. “I know that old habits are indeed hard to break. I’ve my fair share of them.” Just then, another contraction came - significantly stronger than the last set of them. Ultra gasped and his servos shook, searching the ground for something to grip onto to provide respite. It went away when Megatron outstretched a servo, holding onto his hand.

When Ultra got his bearings back, he groaned. “How and why did my own carrier decide to go through this?”

Megatron gave a soft rumble. “I would assume that it is because your carrier sorely wanted you, just as you wanted our sparkling.”

Memories of the sparklinghood he’d endured came flooding to the forefront of his processor, something that Ultra always tried to put out of his processor. He cleared his vocalizer. “My carrier didn’t want me, and neither did my sire, as far as I’ve been aware.”

Out of the corner of his optics, he saw Megatron turn his helm and look at him, as if asking for an explanation. Ultra shook his helm. “I remember nothing of them. I don’t want to.”

“A pity,” Megatron replied quietly. “I had only my carrier who doted on me.” Ultra heard him sigh. “I lost him very early in my life cycle.”

Ultra tried to put himself in Megatron’s position, imagining an alternative reality where he had grown up with a pair of creators that had truly cared for him beyond the bare minimum. It was something so foreign for him to think of - but he was truly dedicated to being better with his sparkling than his creators had been with him.

“What was your carrier like?”

Megatron gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I remember very little details about him. I only remember that I loved him and he loved and cared for me. He was lost in a mining accident and I was left to my own devices.” The old warlord sat up and down at Ultra. “I believe you should say something about yourself now, as I’ve divulged what I have.”

Bright sky unwavering above him, wind gently blowing around them, Ultra gave a very quiet sigh. “I left my creators at the earliest opportunity that arose. My younglinghood was comprised of fending for myself, listening to my creators argue and blame me for their hardships. I fell into the Elite Guard, and now here I am millions of stellar cycles later.”

“Do you know what became of them?”

“Well, they are far more likely offline than online. I don’t particularly care to-” Ultra was cut off by a pain that surged in his frame. He gasped and one of his arms shot out, servo scrabbling around for Megatron’s. “Frag, frag, frag,” he hissed between his dentae, curling into himself, gasping.

When he came to after the pain subsided a little bit, Megatron was helping him stand up, and Ultra realized he was making some incoherent noises. He was speaking ahead of his processor. “Shower rack,” he was saying. “Get me to the shower rack, I need it.”

Megatron said nothing as he half-carried the laboring mech up the steps and through the common room, past the medics and cyberninja and into the washrack room. Some part of Ultra seemed to realize where he was, and he looked around in a daze.

“Help me in,” he gasped, rooting around for something of Megatron to hold onto, gripping the armor for anchor. His vents blared loudly, ex-venting heat and pressure on his internals. Ultra was dimly aware of the door for the washrack being opened, himself being led in, and then a knob being turned to activate the shower. His tired and dirty frame welcomed the relief.

Processor catching up, Ultra leaned forward and sighed. Megatron’s arms held him back. “I want this to be over,” he said, shaking his helm.

A contraction, far more powerful than all of the previous ones combined, chose that moment to hit him. He clutched at Megatron, screaming it surged through his frame. Tears of pain and frustration streamed down his faceplates. His spark felt like it was going to burst from the stress. He wanted to go offline - it had to be far less painful than this.

Then as quickly as it had come, it retreated with such rapidity that it left him momentarily dazed. His legs buckled, but the strong arms wrapped around him held him up. The stream of cleansing fluid continued to flow, streaming out of the showerhead and draining away. “It hurts so much,” he whispered hoarsely, his screaming have expended what little energy he’d had left.

Megatron’s digits stroked his faceplates this time. “I know.”

Ultra became aware of a pair of pedes coming his way, and he turned his helm to see Ratchet heading for him.

“What’s your percentage?”

After getting his bearings again, Ultra checked. “Seventy-three percent.”

He could almost see the stunned expression on the medic’s faceplates“We should get you to the pool. Come on.”

Ultra released his grip on Megatron and grabbed Ratchet’s servos, letting the medic lead him to the common room. In the span of the time he’d been in the washrack, a portable pool had been set up, and Red Alert and Jazz were slowly filling the little pit to help in his emergence.

When he made it in, his frame sang praises unto Primus for the relief. Ultra leaned against the edge, curling his digits around it and resting his forehelm on the backs of his servos.

“How are you feeling, Ultra?” Red Alert asked.

Ultra didn’t look up as he responded, “As if my internals are being crushed and my frame is being split apart, simultaneously.”

“That’s apparently to be expected.”

He heard Jazz give a soft snicker off to the side, and he resisted the urge to order the cyberninja to shut up.

.-.-.

Screaming, yanking on Megatron’s servos and blaming him for this current predicament.

Ninety-two-point-one percent, his visual field blared at him.

Ultra groaned and pushed the waste can away, wearily lifting a servo to wipe away the trickle of undigested energon that trailed down his chin. Megatron knelt outside of the collapsible, portable pool, holding his servo and saying nothing.

Jazz had hurried off, murmuring something about needing to be alone. Even through his fugue, Ultra had been able to see how the cyberninja had bristled each time Megatron came close. Ratchet wasn’t much better - but Ratchet was a medic and was needed. Jazz wasn’t, at the moment.

Another contraction. Ninety-five-point-nine percent.

Repeated words that this was progressing much faster than had been noted to be normal. The words didn’t help him - he was in so much agony and he couldn’t bring himself to be any more thankful about the fact.

Ultra looked up, his blue optics dimmed, and blinked slowly at the grey-armored mech holding his servo. “I feel that this is never going to end.”

The old warlord raised his helm slightly. “All things eventually come to an end, Ultra. This will too. As will my time here.”

Ultra wanted to tell him something, but that was immediately torn from him as he was blindsided by another contraction. He curled the digits of one servo around the edge of the pool as he reached with his other one for the waste bin, but Megatron grabbed it and held it in front of him. Ultra was grateful for it, as not a nanoklik later he vomited.

Ratchet and Red Alert were now next to him, taking readings, scanning himself and the sparkling. Ratchet asked him what the percentage was.

One hundred percent.

It was time.

Ultra closed his optics as he steeled himself both physically, mentally, and emotionally for the ordeal within the ordeal that was to come. He wrapped his digits around Megatron’s servos and clung to them desperately as a contraction crested.

Red Alert was telling him something. The only word he was able to decipher was “push” and he held onto it. He let out a low groan that evolved into a harsh yell as he contracted his abdominal cables, feeling the bitlet working a way down and out of the gestation chamber that had been a cramped den for the past stellar cycle.

The contraction went away and he stopped, throwing his helm back as he sagged against the edge, optics wide.

A servo stroked his helm, and he managed to turn his helm to look into Red Alert’s comforting blue optics.

“You’re doing great so far,” she said, a smile on her faceplates as she stroked her digits over her old friend’s helm. “It’s going to be over soon and you’ll get to hold your sparkling.”

Ultra blinked his optics and then slowly nodded.

A contraction hit him again, and he bore down, cables straining. He felt something pushing against his valve from inside his body. The contraction stopped again.He pushed himself to sit up, straining to reach a servo around the swell of his belly to feel for the sparkling’s helm between his thighs.

And he felt it. A mass of soft metal pushing out of his frame that sent a wave of shock through his systems.

It made this experience so much more visceral.  He was really doing this.

He grunted as the next contraction came and he bore down along with it, instinctively cradling the slowly emerging helm with both of his servos. The previously clear liquid became darker with each push he gave to get the bitlet out, but by touch alone he was able to tell how far the sparkling had yet to go. His digits felt a helm crest, antennae, closed optics-

The pressure increased on his pelvis, against his valve, but the sparkling stopped moving. He tried to push again.

Nothing happened.

“Red,”  he rasped, optics wide with horror and panic, “I think he’s stuck.”

“Let me see,” the medic said brusquely, shoving Ratchet out of the way as she dove her arms into the murky water. He was so sore that he thought he wouldn’t have been able to feel anything, but Ultra was proven wrong when he felt what was definitely Red Alert’s servos shoving up his valve. He gasped and curled his pedes, his sensors picking up on her servos moving and jostling around in there, almost fighting with the bitlet.

A point of pressure that he didn’t realize was there suddenly disappeared as Red Alert dislodged something, and he felt her servos slip partway out of his frame. “The shoulders are blocking it. I’m going to try and help it get one before the other, so it can come out easier.”

Ultra nodded, gasping as he felt another contraction coming his way. He curled his servos around Megatron’s, gripping them as a lifeline, and continued to push. Red’s servos moved, working her medical magic. Ultra felt something hard pressing against his valve, something wide that he couldn’t possibly pass through, but then Red Alert did something that made it less wide. Whatever it was, part of it extended past the rim of his valve.

“There’s a shoulder!” Red Alert said brightly. “Just one more to go, come on!”

Encouraged by the tone in her voice, Ultra grit his dentae and did so, and oh Primus how it hurt, almost as horribly as the attempt on his life-

And then he felt the mass of the sparkling slip out of his frame, the sensation so strange and foreign yet welcome that he gasped and almost fell forward, held back solely by strong arms wrapping around him. Letting his legs go lax from their folded position against his chassis, he leaned his helm back, breathing harshly as he regulated his internal systems.

Something slippery, squirming, something _alive_ was pushed against his chassis, and on instinct he raised his arms, wrapping his arms around the little thing.

It was over. He was done.

He heard Red Alert make a happy noise that he’d never heard from her before, dully aware of her swooping in and gently turning the bitlet’s faceplates to face her as she cleaned off the excess fluid around the optics, olfactory openings, and mouth. The first thing the sparkling did when the gestation fluid was cleared out of its systems was emit a loud, strong wail.

“She lives!” Ratchet said triumphantly, laughing.

_She._

Ultra was stunned into silence for a moment, then kissed the sparkling’s helm as he laughed and cried. Her electromagnetic field came online and flared out every way, full of confusion and panic as she cried. In response, Ultra buffeted his field against hers, unmitigated joy brushing against this perfect little creation. Surprise met him in reply. The field probed awkwardly at him, looking for something that she found. Her cries decreased in volume, and she opened her optics, twin blue orbs staring at him, unfocused as she adjusted her optics to the sense of sight.

“Hello,” he whispered, smiling at her in exhaustion. “I’m your carrier. It’s been a long journey for both you and I,” he continued in a low voice, stroking her helm as gentle as he’d ever been, his spark glowing and overflowing with sheer happiness that abated the pain of the loss of his office, the pain of carrying, the terror of the night both almost offlined, and the agony of emergence. “But you made it, little one.”

Her optics blinked and he could hear the soft noises of the mechanisms working in them.

Ultra then became aware of arms wrapped around his frame and black digits tucking themselves under the little femme’s servos, watching as she immediately responded by opening her hands and wrapping them around the tips of Megatron’s fingers.

“And this is your sire. It’s also been a long journey for him, but not nearly as painful,” Ultra said with a faint smile. “How long we had waited to see your face and meet you.”

Though he couldn’t see Megatron from this angle, being that his back was to the other mech’s front, he could feel the wide smile and the rapid pulses of the Decepticon’s spark against his back.

“I don’t know what I should say,” Megatron finally confessed as the blocky tips of his fingers stroked the small antennae that stuck out of the sides of the little bit’s helm.

Ultra ran his own digits up the sparkling’s side, still trying to convince himself that this was absolutely real and that she was real, that she wouldn’t wink out of existence if he woke up from this dream. Antennae and helm that were mirrors of his, deep blue and white armor accented by bits of grey and black here and there.

And his accursed shoulder struts. They looked so out of place on such a small little sparkling that he had to laugh.

He tucked his own digits under her small servos, and as they wrapped around his he realized that they weren’t thick and blocky like his, but long and tapered like her sire’s.

Bright blue optics blinked at him, engine running quietly.

“You say what you feel,” Ultra whispered quietly. He kissed the bitlet on her helm again. “And right now, I can’t verbalize what I feel.”

She was an incredible little thing, small, perfect, quite plump. She stretched and yawned, then began whimpering. The noise triggered a function within his frame, causing his chassis plates to open and reveal two thick tubes filled with brightly hued energon. Ultra guided and helped her to the closest of the two tubes, sighing in relief when she latched on and began to feed eagerly, her small servos finding grip on his chassis as she steadied herself.

She was perfect. So small, but so perfect.

Cradling her helm in one of his servos, Ultra looked up and stared at Megatron for a moment before asking, “How did you know?”

Megatron looked a little confused. “Know what?”

“That we were having a femme.”

Megatron looked mournfully at the exhausted bot, a small grin tugging at the thin line of his lipplates. He shook his helm. “I didn’t. I merely thought it would be fun to contradict you. I never expected that I would be right.”

Ultra stayed quiet for a moment, then smiled and leaned up, kissing the grey-plated warlord on his lipplates. Against them he whispered, “You win.”

The warlord smiled into the kiss. “I won indeed.”

.-.-.

After that amount of time spent in the birthing pool, the last thing Ultra had wanted was to take another shower. He agreed to it, and then realized how much he couldn’t get enough of it, scrubbing his armor and protoform down to feel clean again.

Red Alert and Ratchet had thoroughly cleaned off the sparkling and wrapped her in thick thermal sheets, handing her to Ultra with the explanation that she couldn’t control her temperature regulation at this point in time.

He watched the Decepticon warlord as he cradled their sleeping daughter in his arms, looking down at her with an expression that he could only describe as awe.

The sparkling stirred in her sire’s arms, yawning widely. Megatron shifted his hold on the bitlet and cupped her small helm in one of his large servos, optics dimmed as he gazed upon her visage. So small, but so bright.

Ultra felt a small twinge of pain course through his frame. He grimaced and winced audibly, shifting around on the berth.

His frame felt like he’d gone ten rounds in a battlefield. However, he wouldn’t lie. The attempted assassination by Shockwave had been a lot more painful.

“Are you alright?”

Ultra turned his helm, sighing and smiling wanly at the Decepticon. “In pain. But I’m fine. And you?”

Megatron couldn’t help the grin that crossed his faceplates and the tears that streamed out of the corners of his optics. “She’s absolutely perfect,” he said quietly.

“I would have locked you out of here if you’d said she wasn’t,” Ultra responded, continuing his gazing upon the little family he had for now. Sire of his sparkling, their precious daughter. His spark bloomed with pure, absolute love and devotion to the tiny little being who wasn’t a full solar cycle old as of yet.

A voice cut through his reverie. “Do you know what you want to name her?”

Ultra had a name in mind, but he asked Megatron first. “What would you prefer, from the list that we’d complied?”

The grey-armored mech shook his helm. “I have no preference. And even if I did,” Megatron slowly made his way over to the berth and placed the little femme in her carrier’s arms, “you went through this. You should have the honors, Ultra.”

The femme stretched her arms out, yawning, glossa sticking out and tasting the air. Her optics opened a very minute fraction, blue light cutting away the darkening night, before she closed them again.

“Astraea. That Earth goddess of purity and innocence.” Ultra stroked the femme’s sleeping face, the image of innocence, uncorrupted indeed. “It’s the only designation of the ones we thought of that I believe suits her well.”

He thought of the atrocities committed by both sides during the war. He’d been complicit in them, just as Megatron had. Everyone had in some way, shape, or form. But here, in his arms, was the first Cybertronian born in many millenia, with a clean slate, having done nothing but dare to exist.

“As long as I live she should never have to suffer for what we did,” Ultra said quietly. “For what I’ve done, for what you’ve done.”

He heard Megatron give a wearied sigh beside him.

.-.-.

Perfectly aware that it was the pride in his newspark progeny affecting him, Megatron thought that Ultra had never looked more beautiful. The sleeping, pale faceplates illuminated by moonlight, the gentle and occasional rise and fall of the old Magnus’s broad chassis. Megatron’s tapered digits gently stroked Ultra’s side, watching the Autobot in his deep and much-deserved recharge with their baby femme, finally given face, sleeping on his chassis. Leaning over Ultra’s side, Megatron kissed Astraea’s faceplates, smiling and blinking back tears as she stirred and brought her servos, curled into fists, up to her face.

Gently moving her servos aside with one black digit, Megatron pressed his helm against her helm crest. The motions woke her, and she slowly and blearily opened her blue optics.

He would carry that image with him in his spark for whatever time remained for him. The sight of bright optics staring at him from pale faceplates, peeping out from a thermal blanket and cuddled up against the Autobot Commander’s chassis.

The sound of her name was the most beautiful thing to his audio receptors, her innocence so pure and whole that he wasn’t worthy of being her sire, nor was Ultra worthy of being her carrier.

Those blue optics focused on him, and Megatron swore on his spark that if he had to extinguish his spark himself to keep her alive, he would do it himself.

One of his digits stroked her small face. She scrunched her faceplates and moved her helm up, squinting her optics as if studying him for the first time.

“You’re going to experience a lot of things you shouldn’t have to. I regret that I won’t be there to help you with your dilemmas.” Megatron’s optics softened. “Your carrier will have to stand in for me.”

Astraea blinked at him and then snuggled into the folds of the thermal sheet and fell back into recharge.

Megatron surmised that that would probably be his best route of action. He curled around the old Magnus, who made a stirring noise but didn’t wake, and kept a servo over their sparkling’s form.

.-.-.

Hard, pounding knocks came at the front door, jolting Ultra awake at the same time that Megatron sat up. He saw the Decepticon bristle. He heard Ratchet, Red Alert, and Jazz at the front, talking in hushed and pleading tones.

Everything happened in a blur that Ultra himself took a long time to process. He grabbed onto Megatron’s servo, holding onto it as if it were a lifeline - and as far as he was concerned, it _was_ his lifeline and a lifeline for their daughter.

In Megatron’s optics, for the third time in two solar cycles, he saw fear.

“Don’t go with them,” Ultra whispered as two of the four Elite Guardbots that chose that moment to storm into his berthroom cuffed Megatron’s free servo.

The fear gave way to defeat. Megatron gently pulled Ultra to his chassis and kissed him, and Ultra didn’t want to let go, sobbing quietly as Megatron pulled away and then leaned down to kiss the sparkling’s helm crest.

Astraea stirred and made a small noise of discontent, bringing her servos up to her face, but didn’t wake up.

“I’ve no choice.” Megatron kept his gaze on Astraea’s faceplates, but his words were clearly aimed at both, an apology to the daughter that would never know him and the mech that would be faced with a task bigger than he’d ever stared down before.

Ultra refused to let Megatron’s servo go as Megatron was yanked toward the front door, toward the outside. He didn’t have to look outside to know what was there - the transport shuttle from Trypticon. The guards stopped just short of the front door, and they seemed to look amongst themselves as if unsure what to do.

One arm fiercely, protectively holding onto the sparkling and the other holding onto the warlord’s black servo as if his life depended on it, Ultra stared at the Elite Guardbots and then at Megatron. “Please.”

Megatron was one more plea away from breaking. Astraea made a whimpering noise. Ultra released the warlord’s servo without thinking about it, looking down at the sparkling-

-and then another cuff was added to Megatron’s now-free servo.

Dimmed red optics looked at him, sorrowful. “Tell her how much I love her. I love her far more than I ever loved life. And I’m so sorry that I won’t be there for the both of you.”

.-.-.

Ratchet could only watch, along with Jazz and Red Alert, the sorry scene that gave way when the doors closed behind Megatron’s retreating back. Ultra slowly sank to the floor on his knees, helm hanging.

To have been this strong for so long… Ratchet couldn’t blame the other mech. Despite all the Pit he’d put them through, with his indiscretions and with the sparkling, he couldn’t blame Ultra.

The former Magnus curled further into himself, and it was then that they realized his shoulder struts - no, his entire frame, was shaking and that Ultra was sobbing, trying to stifle it but failing miserably. Ratchet’s audio receptors picked up the sound of Ultra whispering, “I’m so sorry.”

At that moment, the newspark began to wail. The cry was mournful, carrying the weight of a thousand dead frames, somehow as if she could comprehend the situation.

Red Alert walked over to Ultra, and Ratchet heard her murmur a few words to him. After a few moments’ pause broken only by Astraea’s cries, he saw Ultra give a faint blink-or-miss-it nod and hand the femme over to the medic. She quickly walked over to the other two mechs. “Here, take her for me.” Red Alert gently passed the bundle of pale blue and silver sheets to Ratchet. “I’m going to give Ultra a sedative and have him lie down.”

Astraea’s cries diminished significantly, dying down to panicked whimpers. She opened her optics, swimming with tears, and stared into the tired blue optics of the mech holding her. Pulsing her field out, Ratchet felt the confusion in it. He wasn’t her carrier, but she wasn’t too terrified so far.

She really did look so much like Ultra. Pale faceplates, bright blue optics, helm crest and antennae.

Jazz smiled, gently ran the tips of his digits over the femme’s helm fins. Astraea stared at everyone with teary, wide blue optics. She whimpered.

“Hey bit,” Jazz said quietly, prompting the femmeling to turn her helm towards him, “we’re here. We ain’t gonna be leavin’. That’s the last thing you need, anyway.”

Astraea’s optics showed some understanding, an old soul born to misfortune that somehow, some way knew what she was going to have to deal with. She blinked her optics at him and then closed them, curling her servos into fists and keeping them up by her face.

Ratchet sat down on the long seat, Jazz next to him, watching out of the corner of his optics as Red Alert helped Ultra to his berthroom.

Once the door shut behind them both, Jazz gave a sigh. “Ultra’s a mess. Don’t know if we can trust him alone with the sparkling for now.”

The medic nodded. “I’m of the same opinion, but we’ll just have to wait and see how he reacts later on. Of course, I haven’t gone through what he’s goin’ through right now.” He thought of Arcee, back at their home. He’d sent pictures of the sparkling the solar cycle prior, and she’d responded with coos over how beautiful she was. He would rather go offline than lose her again.

But Ultra would have to hold on for the little femme that he and Megatron had created. Ratchet gently tapped the sparkling’s little nose. She scrunched her face up in displeasure and put her fists over her face.

.-.-.

He felt like his frame weighed twice its normal weight when the sedative wore off and he woke up to a very large berth and a ceiling looming over him.

Night had fallen again. It had been just over a solar cycle since he’d parted with his sparkling in physical form and seen her face for the first time.

The berth felt so empty that Ultra feared it would swallow him. Part of him wished it would, so his spark wouldn’t bear the weight of the universe on him. He closed his optics.

And then he realized, with a panic, that Astraea wasn’t there with him. He shot up in berth, ignoring the pain that surged through his systems, and composed himself enough to send Red Alert a message. ::Where is Astraea?::

The response came a moment after he sent it. ::She is out in the common room with us. Would you like me to bring her to you?::

::Yes. I don’t want to be separated from her::

A few moments after that, the door opened, Red Alert holding the bundle in her arms. She gently passed the femmeling onto him, and Ultra held onto her, his last little lifeline in this universe.

“Are you going to continue recharging?”

Ultra counted the small digits. “I just wish to be with her, Red,” he admitted softly.

The medic nodded softly in understanding. “We’re just in a room away if you need us.”

Ultra wanted to release his emotions, break down all over again. He would never see the sire of his sparkling again. Astraea would never know him.

It was just him protecting her from everything cruel that existed in the universe.

When Megatron left them, if he took Astraea with him…

He was done.

Ultra nodded and said nothing, holding the femme against his chassis as Red Alert backed up and exited the room.

He laid on his side, gently stroking the sleeping femme’s faceplates with his digits, watching as she stirred against the disturbance and yawned widely. She reached her servos out and wrapped her little digits around his fingers.

How he loved her. How he could love something so small, fragile, so new, more than he ever loved anything in this lifetime.

Megatron loved her more than he’d loved life itself, he had said. He was sorry he wouldn’t be there for them.

As he kissed Astraea’s helm crest, all Ultra could think of was that he was so sorry for dooming them all.


	22. Dissolving Like the Setting Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The warning, unfortunately, does come into play.

Ultra sat on the back patio, Astraea cradled in his arms, as he watched the shuttle maneuver over the Manganese mountains and settle down at the steps leading from the patio to the fields. He slowly got to his pedes, holding the sleeping little femme close to his chassis, and watched as Red Alert disembarked.

He watched her come up the steps and salute him. He nodded to put her at ease and sighed. “There’s no need for the formalities. You should know that.”

“I know,” she replied. “But… the situation, I think, calls for it.”

He didn’t want to think of the situation, but the situation was why everything was happening. It was why his spark felt so heavy, why his frame weighed twice its normal heft. All he could try to focus on was the small femme in his arms, only a few decacycles old and perfectly content to down energon and recharge.

First Aid was at the co-pilot seat, ludicrously small in the large chair. He looked up at the sound of Red Alert and Ultra embarking the ship, and Ultra heard the quiet sound of a gasp coming from the tiny mech’s vocalizer.

“Is that her?” he asked, a tone of astonishment and wonder in his voice.

Ultra looked at the assistant medic and smiled, transferring his gaze to the little femme in his arms and nodded. “Her name is Astraea.” 

First Aid stood up and comically enough, barely reached high enough to see Astraea swaddled in her thermal sheet. When he stood up in the co-pilot seat, he was able to see over and coo over the tiny bitlet. “She’s beautiful, sir! She looks like you!”

Red Alert had settled herself back in the main chair and was checking over the shuttle’s systems. “I showed you pictures, did I not?”

The little mech didn’t take his optics off the bitlet. “She’s a lot prettier when you see her yourself, Red!”

Astraea chose that moment to open her optics, squinting them at the small mech as if studying him. First Aid made a squeaking noise. “Her optics are blue! They’re so pretty!”

The shuttle’s engines started up, and Red Alert looked at First Aid and Ultra. “The both of you may want to settle in. We’ve got a long journey.” 

At that moment Astraea began whimpering and crying softly, the noises now familiar to Ultra. He settled in the seat behind the pilot and co-pilot seats, buckled up with one servo, and tucked the little femme into the crook of one arm as he parted his chassis and let an energon line drop. When he grabbed the tube and held it to her, she latched onto it and began feeding greedily.

The shuttle lifted off, and Ultra glanced out the window at the homestead and the mountain range shrinking by the nanoklik. He tried not to think that it could very well be the last time seeing them by distracting himself with the small femme feeding from his lines. Looking down at her, he saw her blue optics staring up at him, dimmed in contentedness. The tips of his digits from his free servo danced over her helm. She closed her optics and lifted her helm towards the loving touches of her carrier’s digits.

“Wherever you go,” he said quietly, kissing the top of the femme’s helm, “I will follow you.”

Astraea continued to drink her energon, engine purring quietly. After a few more kliks, she let go of the feeding tube and yawned, curling into his chassis and closing her optics as she fell into a deep recharge.

Ultra smiled at her, kissed her again, and then looked out the window once more. The mountains were now almost indistinguishable from the rest of the landscapes on Cybertron, which was slowly falling behind and giving way to stars.

Somewhere down there was Trypticon, and within it, Megatron. His spark sank, and optic fluid welled up, but he blinked it back.

He’d sent along a last message to Megatron. That he loved him and that he would make certain that Astraea knew how her sire adored her.

That was the first time he’d said it. That he loved the warlord. There was always the notion that it was his processor’s changes during carrying had affected the true capacity of how much he really loved the slagmaker, but that was of little difference now.

He would have loved to hear a response. But he knew he would never get it.

Ultra curled himself around Astraea, stroking her placid faceplates, and entered a light doze before he could let his processor run away from him once more.

.-.-.

When Optimus had awakened, there was a strange type of melancholic atmosphere that had settled on Fortress Maximus that consumed his spark. He sat on his berth, knees drawn to his chassis and arms wrapped around his legs for quite some time before he snapped to attention and realized that, as Magnus, he needed to make his way to Trypticon.

He rose from the berth and sighed as he made sure that his armor was gleaming in the mirror. Stormbringer was standing in its place of honor near the front door. Optimus grabbed the staff and stared at it.

He didn’t want to see this happen. A stellar cycle ago he would have given the adulations and his title as Prime to see Megatron taken offline, but the knowledge of what it would do to his mentor, his predecessor, soured the experience.

Unfortunately, as the ruling Magnus of Cybertron, he had no choice in the matter. He had to attend.

But far better him than Ultra Magnus.

A ping came to his personal communication line. It was Alpha Trion, a message telling him that he was needed for a brief convening. Optimus responded with a question of why it was being held on this solar cycle, of all possible times.

Trion simply said that he was needed, and that was that. They’d see him in the High Council Chambers.

Optimus sighed again and rubbed the back of his servo over his optics.

When he descended on the lift from the top levels of Fortress Maximus, he found the hallways and corridors barren of all life. He had given Kup permission to let the cadets and Minors off for the solar cycle - no drills, no training. Optimus walked through the empty halls, Stormbringer in his servo, toward the chambers, dreading whatever it could be that was waiting for him. 

Upon walking into the darkened chambers, Optimus looked at the three assembled Councilors. “What is it?”

Alpha Trion shared a look with Perceptor and Botanica before clearing his vocalizer. “A request from Ultra former Magnus. If we can intervene and turn over Megatron’s death sentence.”

Optimus tightened his grip on the Magnus Hammer. “We can’t. Can we?”

“We could, on the technicality that the ruling Magnus finds that the trial was not fair and overturns it.”

“How could it have been fair?” Optimus asked Alpha Trion, a bit incredulous. “This is Megatron that we’re talking about. Any trial he would have been given would have been affected just by who he is. And what could we do if we were to overturn it?”

“Everyone is still going to demand his execution,” Botanica said quietly. “Ultra can try and try, but there’s no way we can do anything to overturn it. Not this late.”

Perceptor cut in: “Ultra requested that Megatron be placed on house arrest or that he and Megatron be exiled somewhere away from Cybertron. The sentiment is that he wants them to be together.”

Optimus closed his optics and pursed his lipplates, thinking of the options.

He remembered the news of the attempted assassination - wanting to kill the sparkling to get Megatron executed in a more “timely” fashion. There was no guarantee against and every fear that even exiling Megatron, Ultra Magnus, and the little sparkling would be able to sate the Autobots crying for the Decepticon’s spilled energon.

Optimus reopened his optics, took a measured in-vent, and shook his helm. “Ultra Magnus has always been a dear mentor and friend of mine, despite some of our differences. I’ve pulled a lot of strings for him. I can’t pull more. If we let Megatron go free, something would happen to him and to their sparkling, and to us, before we could react.”

The three High Councilors all nodded. Optimus swore that he saw something resembling relief in their optics.

.-.-.

Jazz and Bumblebee were the ones that piloted the craft that took him to Trypticon Prison. The ride was mostly silent, except for Bumblebee chattering about how he couldn’t wait to see Ultra’s sparkling and Jazz saying that he’d get his chance soon.

Optimus stared out the window, watching the looming edifice grow closer and the rain intensify, splattering on the glass. 

They landed, and Elite Guardbots came to meet them and take him down to Megatron’s holding cell. He would have a full cycle with him, to hear any last words that Megatron had to say, to inform him of his rights before it happened.

It didn’t seem to fully register that this was the true end of the Decepticon warlord. As far as Optimus knew, it would probably not hit until the greyed frame was presented before him.

The walk down the corridor seemed to take long. Optimus had to wonder if it had felt this long for his predecessor when he’d come down for his meetings, both official and unofficial, with the Decepticon. The guards at the front of the doors opened them for him and he walked through.

He and Megatron were separated by a heavy glass pane. Both mechs looked at each other a moment, and then Optimus tapped the switch on the wall, allowing metal bars with violet energy beams surrounding them to descend and take place of the glass.

“Did the guards give you your ration?”

“They did,” Megatron said quietly. “Though I don’t see the point in it. I’m going to die either way. I was hoping that they’d put something in it to take me offline, spare me the audience that awaits.”

Right. Optimus had advised against it, but the High Council had drawn a lottery of sorts, allowing a select group of mechs and femmes to witness the execution of the slagmaker, the warlord of the Decepticons himself. Many had bid on tickets, over and over again, to see history happen before their very optics.

Optimus thought it was horrifying. But he’d been overruled when he’d tried to put a stop to it.

“I’m sorry,” the Magnus found himself saying. “After what you’ve been through, the original plan was to do it privately. I tried to stop it but everyone wants… everyone wants to see you break.”

Megatron gave a heavy sigh. “It is no matter. I cannot have my spirit crushed any further. Seeing Ultra Magnus holding our sparkling, looking at me and pleading with me not to leave, broke me far more than any of your Elite Guards and their weapons, or your audiences and their jeers as they watch me offline, could hope to achieve. I am done, Autobot.” His crimson optics dimmed further. “I won’t resist any longer. I no longer have the will.”

Both enemies stood and sat in a heavy silence - Optimus looking down at the Decepticon in his seated position. He drummed his digits on the staff of Stormbringer.

Megatron reached for a datapad that Optimus had noticed was nearby, and the Magnus watched as the old warlord, old nemesis looked at it ponderously for a while. “I know of my right to make a final request or a final speech before it happens. Before this entire ordeal, I thought that I was going to make a final speech. I took this datapad from a guard and have kept it with me, intending to write it down.” A wry half-grin crossed the warlord’s faceplates. “Now I’ve a request.” He looked up and slipped the datapad through the bars, and Optimus took it into his servos. “My last words to Ultra, and a letter to our daughter. Please make sure that he receives it. It is the only way I’ll be able to meet my deactivation with anything resembling peace.”

Optimus bit down on his bottom lipplate and stared at the darkened screen. His reflection looked back at him. For all he knew, the datapad could have contained something malicious that Ultra Magnus shouldn’t have to lay his optics on. 

But then he looked up at the warlord, and the downtrodden expression in those red optics made him nod his helm. “I’ll be sure that he gets it.”

Megatron smiled. Part of it seemed to reach his optics at the very least.

.-.-.

Ultra had never been to the particular dwarf planet on the edge of the Autobot Commonwealth that was looming in the window as Red Alert piloted them closer and then landed the shuttle on the landing pad of the small outpost.

He’d been told that it was the furthest decently-staffed and able outpost with a medical facility on the premises if anything beyond the shuttle’s capabilities were needed. Ultra hoped that it wouldn’t come to that.

A medic came and met them on the landing pad, leading them to a private room in the facility. Ultra tried to quell the pit of anxiety that manifested in his tanks.

Planets away was Megatron. Planets away the sire of his sparkling would meet his demise.

Ultra had tried to give himself and Megatron a glimmer of hope, very small but it was there.

A heavier weight settled on his spark as he looked down at the peacefully recharging faceplates of the little femme that had become his entire world. He wanted to see those optics open again and look at him, wonder in them that he was carrier and be able to return that look to her. 

Red Alert sat next to him on the clinical bench, putting a gentle servo on his arm. He looked up and into her optics as she asked, “Do you want to hold her while I do it, or do you want her on the berth?”

Astraea chose that moment to wake up, her blue optics looking at Red Alert curiously.

“I’d rather hold her, if that’s fine with you,” Ultra said quietly. “She’s much calmer when she can feel my spark nearby.”

“That’s fine. First Aid and I are just waiting.”

He didn’t need to ask what they were waiting for. He knew. He stroked Astraea’s faceplates with his pointing digit and smiled when she reached one of her little arms out and wrapped her servo around it, looking up at him and chirping quietly. 

Each time he looked at her, he still struggled to believe on some level that she was his. She certainly bore almost all resemblance to him, but that she was his sparkling, that she was so small and perfect and that he’d created and carried her, was hard to comprehend.

Ultra looked down at the small hand around his. Pale, but thin and tapered digits that didn’t come from him. The smile slackened off his faceplates.

“I tried, Red,” he whispered, confessing. “I tried and reached out to Alpha Trion. I wanted the execution stayed. If he could’ve been exiled to my home, or both of us and Astraea exiled somewhere where we could have been together. The three of us.”

Out of the corner of his optics he saw Red Alert bristle. The medic put her servos on her knee joints.

“I know you have something you want to say, Red. Please, just say it.”

The medic tilted her helm at him, and he looked up in time for her to ask, “Do you really want your offspring, the only sparkling on Cybertron in millenia, to be exiled along with you and Megatron? Do you want to deprive her of interaction with others than you?”

“I don’t. But I also do not want Megatron to go offline.”

“Ultra,” Red Alert said with a tone of admonishment in her voice, “you have to choose whom is most important to you. The sire of your sparkling, who is hated by almost everybot currently functioning, and whom almost no one would grant further stays of execution, or your sparkling.” 

The old Magnus stared down at the little femme with her sleepy optics, and he kissed her helm crest, prompting her back to the land of the awake. Astraea chirred and pursed her lipplates in a show of annoyance. 

“She’ll have no chance out there, Ultra. Here she will at least have one. If they approve it and let Megatron get released to your custody, to your home, then fine. But I won’t stop telling you that it’s a horrible idea to have the three of you go into exile. You’ll be doing her a major disservice.”

Ultra mulled over the medic’s words. Astraea chirred insistently at him, reaching both of her chubby arms out, blinking her bright blue optics at him.

_ After so long of acting in the best interests of everyone, I’ve begun to act in the best interests of myself. I’m sorry.  _

“Were it someone lesser in the Decepticon ranks,” Ultra said softly, tapping the tip of a digit on the femme’s nasal ridge, prompting a squeak from her vocalizer, “we could probably get away with a house arrest.”

“But it wasn’t. It was Megatron.” Red Alert smoothed down a fold in the little femme’s blanket that swaddled her. “He was a dead mech walking the moment Optimus Magnus took him into custody.”

He pondered back to the words that he and Megatron had exchanged what seemed like lifetimes ago - how their offspring, their child would fare as a half-Decepticon in a world of Autobots who might never be able to see past her heritage. Megatron would not be there. It would just have to be him. Holding back a mournful sob, Ultra nodded.

He already knew the High Council’s answer before Red Alert drew her optic ridges together, as if concentrating on something, and then she looked up.

“They just gave me the signal. It’s time, Ultra.”

Those three words revived the anxiety in the pit of Ultra’s tanks. He looked down at Astraea, warbling quietly to herself, and nodded.

First Aid brought the syringe over, the tip of the needle glinting in the light of the medical bay. Red Alert took it into her servos, looking at the dosage. Ultra resisted the urge to swat it away and focused simply on Astraea’s bright optics as Red Alert stuck the needle between armor plates on the bitlet’s shoulder strut. 

Astraea gave a slightly startled noise and looked at the site of the injection, but didn’t cry.

Almost immediately, the sedative began to take effect, and Ultra gave his bitlet a wan smile as she looked back up at him with slightly dimmed optics that slowly, ever so slowly, began to close. She yawned and leaned her helm into one of the servos cradling her, and Ultra felt her systems power down to their lowest functioning level.

He craned his helm down, pressing their forehelm crests together.

.-.-.

The spectacle was disgusting.

Optimus looked around the audience assembled in front of the “stage.” Everyone was chattering amongst themselves, the excitement palpable in the air.

Of course, he was the only one here to witness it. All the High Councilors that had allowed this to happen were back at Fortress Maximus. If only they would have gathered here - they might’ve had second thoughts about the lottery.

Primus knew Optimus certainly did.

He lurked in the shadows, protected by Jazz and Bumblebee and holding Stormbringer in his servos. Someone in the crowd began to sing, and soon most of the assembled Autobots joined in. Optimus frowned and tightened his grip on the staff. “I’ve half a processor to tell everyone to get out and let Megatron meet his demise with some semblance of dignity.”

“That would just piss the frag out of everyone here.”

“I’m aware, Bumblebee. That’s why I’m not doing it.” Optimus sighed. “I wish I could. But I did overrule the High Council on one thing.”

“Oh?” Jazz seemed genuinely curious, turning his gaze to the Magnus.

Optimus nodded. “The favored method of execution was torturing him and then snuffing his spark with a spark extinguisher. Megatron told me he wanted it to be over with as quickly as possible. I sent an order for the executioner to just use the extinguisher.” The Magnus looked at the Hammer, Stormbringer glowing in the darkness. “It’s the last favor I can do for Ultra,” he finished in a quiet tone of voice.

Jazz crossed his arms over his chassis. “Can’ say I’ll be sorry ta see him go. Weren’t for him, Prowl’d be alive. Just feel sorry for Ultra an’ the bitlet. That’s all.”

For once, Bumblebee simply nodded in agreement instead of vocalizing it.

After a bit more of silence, Jazz cleared his vocalizer. “What’d Megatron have to say to you when you wen’ in to see him?”

It hadn’t been much, Optimus wanted to say. In his subspace was the object of Megatron’s final request. He simply pursed his lipplates and fixed his gaze the wall behind the staging area. “I told him his right to a final request or a final speech. He chose what he wanted. And he also told me about the sparkling.”

“What’d he say?” Bumblebee asked, optics bright and wide.

Half-smiling, Optimus looked down at the eager, yellow-armored cadet. “He said that she is the most beautiful thing in the universe.”

_ And that he loves her more than he loved anything, except possibly Ultra. _ But he didn’t say that out loud.

Optimus pulled the datapad out of his subspace and looked at it. He wondered what guard Megatron had snatched it from, what information might’ve been on there before the warlord had erased it with the intent of writing his own thoughts down. Megatron had said that a speech had been written, and that he’d replaced it with the letters to Ultra and to the sparkling.

What had the speech said, Optimus wondered. For all of Megatron’s fallacies and politics, the warlord had always been quite the orator.

The room suddenly erupted, and Optimus quickly looked up to see the hulking, grey frame of the Decepticon leader being lead by five Elite Guardbots, all with strengthened chains leading from a metal collar wrapped around Megatron’s helm to their wrists. The warlord’s spark was bared for all to gaze upon.

Megatron’s face stayed as emotionless as he could keep it. 

A chant arose from the crowd - everyone wanting to be the one that took the warmonger offline. The hired executioner, armor clearly painted in all black and with a full mask covering his faceplates, extra kibble added to his frame, stepped out with the long, metal pole with sharpened fangs, designed to clamp together and snuff out a spark with deftness, attached to the end.

For the most fleeting of moments, Megatron’s red optics and Optimus’s blue ones locked gazes. The expression in them was of resignation. Unchanged from a few cycles prior. The datapad in his servos suddenly felt much heavier than it normally did.

_ Please make sure that he receives it. It is the only way I’ll be able to meet my deactivation with anything resembling peace. _

The executioner reached the pole and the set of fangs attached at the head into Megatron’s bared spark chamber.

A moment later, the fangs closed in with no room to spare.

.-.-.

Optics snapped open against effects of the sedation.

A moment later, she screamed.

Seized by fear, Ultra cradled the newspark to his chassis and cooed at her, stroking his digits over her helm. “I’m here little one, I’m here. Please… please.” He was faintly aware of his chassis rising and falling sharply, of his spark seizing just as hers was. “I’m here. Please don’t cry.”

In a deep part of his processor, he knew. It was done.

Red Alert loomed in his visual field, her arms grabbing his shoulders. “I need her on the medical berth, now.”

Ultra looked at her, wanting to protest, but the look in her optics made it very plainly clear that this was not an issue for him to try and counter her. He stood and hurried the screaming bitlet to the motioned-to berth, laying his spark out in the open as Red Alert pulled First Aid into the room and both medics set about activating machines and attaching wires to Astraea.

The newspark continued wailing, springing noises emanating from her chassis, face contorted in pain that Ultra wished he could relieve. Holding back the optic fluid that threatened to fall, he sat the head of the berth as Red Alert and First Aid worked on her. He cradled her tiny helm in one large servo and kissed her helm crest.

For a brief moment her cries ceased, her bright blue optics opening and looking up at him with an expression of wonderment, and for a moment Ultra thought she was free of it. Then she closed her optics and resumed crying. Her wails were somewhat quieter, but the part that broke his spark was her small servos coming to rest over her spark casing.

“Her spark rate is highly elevated.”

“So is her processor activity.”

He refused to take his optics off the little femme, so stricken, so afraid that if he looked away she would die. Letting the tears fall from his optics, Ultra held back his own cry of hurt and pain in favor of stroking her helm. 

_ Please don’t leave us. I’ve lost your sire. I won’t and do not want to survive losing you. _

Astraea gasped, her servos still held over her chest and her optics wide and stricken with fear. 

“Can she be sedated?” Ultra finally managed to ask.

Red Alert shook her helm. “I’m sorry. The previous dose hasn’t run through her systems. If we give her more, it’ll-”

Ultra knew what would follow and raised his servo, stopping her in her tracks. Astraea continued crying, her wails mournful.

“You know what to do if the worst happens, Red,” Ultra said, his voice breaking. He stroked the femmeling’s chassis, letting one of her servos instinctively wrap around two of his digits. Her electromagnetic field was infused with pain and sorrow.

_ I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could bear your pain for you. _

Still, her cries continued.

.-.-.

It was a very long night cycle. Red Alert was inundated with updates from Ratchet about the execution, the smelting process, and how the old warlord’s final resting place would be kept secret even from Ultra, for a little while.

Finally, a question. ::How are Ultra and the bitlet doin’?::

Red Alert kept her berthside vigil, looking briefly at First Aid passed out in a corner of the room, and Ultra half-laying on the berth, Astraea whimpering and crying out in pain every so often. ::She’s stopped screaming. Ultra hasn’t said much of anything::

::What  _ has  _ he said?::

::He told me that I knew what to do if the worst happened. She’s stopped crying, but that might be because she short-circuited her vocalizer::

::Primus above. How’re her spark readin’s holdin’ up?::

::They’re starting to stabilize. Ratchet:: Red Alert said, biting down on her lower lipplate ::if she still goes offline, I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself. We lose the first bit of hope that Cybertron has had in eons, and we also lose our dear friend::

On the other end of the communication link, Red Alert heard only silence, which she knew meant that Ratchet was thinking. Then she heard him groan. ::Don’ know what I’ll do with myself either::

::Easy for you to say. You’re not the one here, with the vial burning a hole in your subspace::

::I’ll have it less worse than you, Red, but still pretty bad. But if the sparklin’s readin’s are startin’ to stabilize, it should be good::

Red Alert looked again, at Ultra’s frame curled around the tiny femmeling and his dimmed blue optics. Half in recharge, but definitely still with his processor going, in case of anything. On his faceplates were fear, desperation, and undying love for the little femme hooked and wired up to machines making sure that she would live.

::I’m not going to tell Ultra anything until I know beyond one hundred percent certainty. For his sake::

Ratchet responded with an affirmative ping, and then closed off the communication link. She passed the palm of one servo over her face, closing her optics in thought, and then removed it, crossing her arms over her chassis once more. At some point she would have to recharge as well, but she wanted to keep on her watch.

Astraea made a soft whimpering noise, jolting both Red and Ultra to attention. The former Magnus stared down at her, watching as Red Alert coaxed the tiny femme’s chest plates open. Golden light illuminated the dark room. The aura of the bitlet’s spark shone, but not as brilliantly as Red knew it should have been.

She didn’t disclose that to Ultra. She simply closed the femmeling’s chassis plates and nodded at him. “She’s fine for now. You can return to recharge.”

The old mech’s faceplates were so palid, and by the dim blue light of his own optics Red thought that he’d aged another million stellar cycles in the span of one night. He shook his helm. “I don’t want to. Not until I know she’s perfectly okay.”

Red wanted to tell him that it would be a little while before she could give the femmeling the all-clear, but she decided that it wouldn’t be the most tactful of things to say. Instead, she nodded.

Both of them stood on either side of the medical berth, watching the newspark’s chassis rise up and down, listening to her make noises in her troubled recharge. Every so often Astraea made a noise, and Red Alert checked her over. The further the night progressed into day, the better the prognosis looked.

“I’m struggling to believe he’s gone.”

Red Alert looked up and saw the distant look in Ultra Magnus’s faceplates and optics. The old mech closed his optics, drew a deep in-vent, and then ex-vented slowly. “I spent the last part of my carrying cycle with him. Every moment of those last few decacycles, he was there. I was holding onto him as I labored and brought our sparkling to life. I begged him not to go.” He reopened his optics. “I didn’t want him to go.”

The mech’s large shoulder struts slumped forward, a signal of an internal battle having been fought and lost. He gently inched a servo forward and caressed the bitlet’s face and chassis. “Now it’s only her and I.”

Red Alert nodded. She turned and saw that the faraway sun, relative to this minor planet, was shining over the horizon.

And that Astraea hadn’t whimpered in pain for a long while. 

First Aid got up and made his way over to stand next to Red Alert, watching along with Ultra as the medic coaxed Astraea’s chestplates open once more.

The golden light was much more brilliant. The little femme’s blue optics opened up, and she stared around, sleepy, her ordeal having been forgotten to herself.

Red Alert looked up and into the former Magnus’s optics. “She’s out of danger. The stress on her spark is non-existent at this point. She’ll pull through.”

The look of relief on Ultra’s faceplates was one that Red Alert had never seen and that she surmised she might never see again. She watched as he stroked the length of Astraea’s arms with his digits, stopping when he reached her servos and the little femme wrapped her hands around her carrier’s digits. 

“Thank you,” Ultra said quietly, his voice choking up. Red had to hold back her own tears from falling down her faceplates - now wouldn’t be the time to lose her composure. That could be later, when she didn’t have to put on a brave face.

If this situation had gone in the opposite direction, however, she knew she wouldn’t have been able to compose herself. Smiling at him, she commented, “She’s a fighter. Just like you are. And just as Megatron was.”

She saw the pause in Ultra’s frame. After a moment, he nodded. “She is.”

.-.-.

Another solar cycle later, Astraea was definitively in the all-clear, a sleepy and content sparkling in her relieved carrier’s arms. Ultra alternated between relieved, and then periods of melancholy.

She’d told First Aid to take Ultra and the sparkling into the shuttle so they could head back to Cybertron, to start it up and that she’d be there soon. Red Alert held her helm high as she walked to the edge of an escarpment that dropped to a valley of sharp and jagged rock formations below. 

She stopped just a few steps before the edge would have put her over and out of sight. Red reached into her subspace and produced a small vial of a translucent liquid, looking at it glinting in the sunlight. She wrapped her servo around it and in-vented, then turned around and hurled it over the edge with a shout of finality. 

A few moments passed. And then she heard the very faint sound of it breaking on a rock somewhere below. To the pit with it. It needed to be as far away as possible to cease reminding her of its intended purpose.

She wasn’t much of a believer in Primus, but she thanked whatever deity might have been on duty that solar cycle that Astraea had survived. In turn, Ultra had survived.

Now the process of healing could begin for all of them, but most importantly, the former Magnus. Death would have been a cliffhanger, and Red Alert knew that she and Ratchet and the others in Ultra’s close company would not have been able to finish it for him.

Upon boarding the shuttle, she took her seat in the pilot’s chair. She turned around and saw the old mech looking so intently and lovingly at the little sparkling in his arms. The sadness, however, was still present in his blue optics.

She started the engine and cleared her vocalizer. “Buckle up. Destination: Cybertron.”


	23. You Left Me In The Dark

Every waking moment of every solar cycle, it was the same. The monotony of it was welcome for now, however. 

Ultra opened his optics and looked to the side of the berth, at the sparkling crib pushed against it. Astraea’s soft warbles and chirps floated out on the air, and just over the railing he could see her small servos waving. He sat up and made his way over, gently picking her up and cradling her against his chassis and neck with one arm.

She chirped and snuggled into the crook of his neck, her small servos flailing as she tried to steady herself. His free servo came over to hold onto her bottom as he gingerly stepped off the berth. “Let’s see if we can do this without making a mess, shall we?”

Astraea made a small noise as her tanks gurgled loudly.

When he walked them into the common room he looked around for the controller for the large screen and turned it on, watching the news bulletins of the solar cycle pass by on the holo-screen. He settled into the single seat and tucked Astraea into the crook of one arm, opening his chassis and handing a tube to her. She had developed her motor skills enough that if he held it out, she was able to grab the line and begin feeding herself.

Red Alert had told him that it was perfectly normal, and that she would begin to hit a few other milestones, but that eventually would come a brief period of frustrating stagnation. Ultra was perfectly fine with that - just the fact that his daughter was  _ here  _ was enough.

Astraea burbled happily, kicking her little chubby legs into the air as she continued to down everything she could. Her big, bright optics looked up at Ultra with utmost love and trust that Ultra wondered if he’d ever felt for his own carrier at one point. He smiled at her and thumbed her helm antennae. “Slow down - you’ll upset your tanks again.”

At that moment the femmeling stopped, drew a curious expression on her faceplates, and then quickly removed the tube from her mouth as she upchucked some energon. Ultra sighed and grabbed a nearby cloth, wiping the energon off the femmeling’s chin and from his chassis plates. 

_ Chirp! _

“You see, this is what happens when you do it too quickly.”

Blue optics gazed up at him. 

Ultra folded the cloth up and set it aside to clean later. “I would have hoped you’d learned from the prior solar cycle’s folly.”

Of course, he knew that Astraea couldn’t understand him, and it would likely be a few more times before her developing processor could get the hint, but it helped him emotionally to talk at her. She reached her chubby servos out and grasped at his digits, pulling them to her optic-level and bending them at the joints.

Every solar cycle he discovered something new about the little femme that he loved. He loved her innate, quiet curiosity about the universe around her.

He’d yet to take her outside on an especially starry night and watch her take in the faraway points of light that provided life to their own systems. 

The news bulletins ceased and reporters sitting at a desk shuffled their digits on screens of datapads. Ultra paid their ramblings no mind, until he snapped back at attention when one of them said, “Blitzwing and Lugnut were sentenced to the rest of their lifecycles in prison, following Shockwave’s sentence to execution last decacycle-”

Ultra turned the holo-screen off. He didn’t want to think about that, but it was too late as the heavy feeling settled back onto his spark, and he looked sadly down at Astraea’s faceplates. She stared up at him, her expression almost asking if he was okay.

“I miss your sire,” he said quietly. “I miss what our life could have been if he’d stayed.”

Her optics blinked at him. He took it as a sign to continue. Letting her continue playing and distracting herself with his digits, he looked up and out of the back doors to the mountains. “I like to imagine that he would have been a great creator to you. I know well what he did for his cause, different from mine as it was.” Ultra looked back down at her and smiled ruefully. “For a sparkling from his own coding, he would have gone to the ends of the universe to make you happy.”

Quiet, contented warbles emanated from the little femme’s vocalizer. She nibbled on one of the digits she held in her small servos and peered up at him with bright optics. Ultra kissed her helm crest. “I’m sure he thought of you each moment up until…”

He trailed off. In his spark, Megatron was at least still alive. He didn’t want to entertain the notion of otherwise.

Astraea yawned widely, her optics growing dim and quite sleepy, and Ultra held her close as she curled into his embrace, her little servos curling into fists and resting against his chassis as her optics closed.

Ultra wondered what was going through her processor. Did she dream in pictures, or in a language that only she could understand? Or did she dream at all?

And if so, what did she dream about? What did sparklings, so new and so inexperienced, small and perfect little things, dream of? Did they dream of their carrier, or something exciting that they saw that cycle? Did she possess the ability to create adventures, all of her own choosing?

He supposed those were mysteries about sparklings that were never meant to be solved.

Checking his internal chronometer, he realized that it was close to his next appointment with Rung. He sighed and rose to his pedes, making his way out to the back patio.

The view from there was infinitely better, in his opinion, than from the front. Where the front porch was situated, the mountains were further in the distance and had a semi-flat plain leading to a pathway that. The backside of the home had the best view of the mountains with the meadow just at the steps. Cybertron’s sun also rose and beamed down the front, so the back was better for not overheating this early in the waking cycle.

Astraea snuggled into his embrace, digging herself in further, and quietly warbled and chirped in her recharge. Even the most mundane things that she did were absolutely incredible. How she was so small, yet she commanded every bit of his attention and space in his spark and mind.

He sent a message to Rung for the therapist to read before he arrived, and stayed out back, a contented Astraea sleeping peacefully in his arms.

To be that peaceful.

The sun was a little higher in the sky when Rung rounded the side of the home and settled into one of the seats nearby Ultra. Both mechs were silent, and Rung followed Ultra’s gaze to the tops of the mountains.

Ultra broke the silence first after a few more kliks. “Even now, decacycles later, I half expect to see him come over the range.” The line of his lipplates twisted briefly into a penitent grin. “Eons ago I dreaded seeing him in any mode, but especially in his aerial mode, coming over the battlefront towards me, intent on annihilating me. Now,” his voice faltered but he still continued, so quietly that out of the corner of his optics he saw Rung lean in a little closer, “I’d give anything to see him airborne.”

Astraea made a small noise in her recharge. Ultra wrapped his arms further around her and sighed. “If I may ask you a question, Rung.”

“Of course.”

“Why? Why did you tell me that having Megatron with me would have helped?”

Rung removed the lenses from his optics, and Ultra looked into the tired blue optics. “Allow me to counter with a question,” he said after a pause. “Do you feel that Megatron’s presence during that last stretch of your carrying cycle help you?”

“Yes, but now he’s gone,” Ultra replied, his voice vacillating on the last word before he composed himself once more. “Those decacycles he was here, I was happy. My nightmares ceased coming so frequently, and with him present during our sessions I felt much more at ease. Red Alert and Ratchet stated that my health was improving by at least a small margin, and that it was something. I was happy to have him with me when I went into emergence and gave birth to our sparkling.” He looked down at Astraea, noting the major features inherited from her sire, servos curled up and resting on her chassis. She was so small, perfect, innocence incarnate. 

Even now, the fact that he had created and carried her this far, that she was born from him, was something that he had yet to entirely wrap his processor around. Looking at her elicited internal reactions of joy, undying love, an internal realization of  _ “You are mine, my wonderful creation.” _

“If I don’t find ways to busy myself,” Ultra said softly, “I fear I’ll fall too much into my own grief and spiral.” 

“How are you busying yourself?”

Ultra shifted his gaze from the bitlet in his arms to the little psychologist. “Tending to her every need, and then some.” A wry grin crossed his faceplates. “There’s a part of me, in my processor, that pretends that he’s simply… gone. And that he’ll be back very soon.” He closed his optics. “I imagine him coming back, doting on our daughter, doing everything in his power for her. And I just watch them,” he reopened his optics, “interact with one another. Then I have to realize at some point that those things aren’t meant to be.”

The wind picked up and Ultra noticed that the sun was a little higher in the sky - not directly over head, but the shadows were definitely a lot shorter on the ground.

“It is unfortunate that it came to this, Ultra Magnus,” the orange mech broke the quiet, “but you were still hurt and devastated by Megatron’s initial refusal to accept the sparkling that you both created. If Megatron had gone to his execution without spending this time with you and accepting the sparkling,” Rung tilted his helm to the side minutely, “do you feel you would have been better off than you are now?”

Ultra had to think on it as he watched the mountains, yearning for that silhouette of a warlord to ascend the air and race toward him. He imagined an alternative outcome, where he’d been alone even through the last bit of his carrying cycle, dealt with the nightmares as they increased in frequency, had one less support bot during the emergence process.

And he had to wonder what Megatron would have felt, if anything, about a sparkling he’d sired but never got to see.

He shook his helm.

“No. I would delude myself that I would be because of how much his refusal to accept and acknowledge Astraea’s existence hurt. But it would have compounded the pain that I feel now,” Ultra said quietly, stroking his daughter’s helm, smiling briefly when she warbled sleepily and opened her optics, gazing up at him. “And it would have been much harder to go through emergence without him there. He did a wonderful job of keeping me grounded, so to speak.”

Rung smiled, his blue optics twinkling a little bit. “I did notice in your subsequent sessions that you were in a much better mood with him around. So, another question I have to ask you,” Rung adjusted how he sat on the patio, blinking his optics against the sunlight that was beginning to creep on them as it rose overhelm, “have the nightmares returned?”

Ultra shook his helm. “It’s hard getting some recharge, with a mixture of emotional turmoil and tending to a sparkling that sleeps at odd times, but no. I haven’t suffered from the old nightmares.” He looked down at Astraea and stroked her faceplates, watching as she batted her small servos against his. “I just wish that this journey hadn’t taken this turn. I didn’t expect that I would get attached to him.”

Both mechs sat in silence, watching as the kliks passed and the shadows became almost non-existent.

A clearing of a vocalizer grabbed Ultra’s attention. “There are some instances in our life cycles where the best option isn’t so clear cut. All options presented to you can be a poison, detrimental more so than beneficial. It is unfortunate that we sometimes have to choose the lesser poison. Letting Megatron spend his last stretch of freedom with you was, in hindsight, the best choice. You forgave him for what he did, came to realizations of your behavior and how it impacted him. And he forgave you.”

Ultra looked curiously at the mech. “What do you mean by he forgave me?”

Rung folded his servos, one over the other. “I spoke with him a few solar cycles before it happened. Another, lesser known procedure aside from the Magnus giving the prisoner a last request or last speech. Megatron told me that he forgave you for how you acted. It was irrational, in his words, but he understood that you acted in the best interest of your sparkling.”

Astraea chirped insistently at her carrier, optics bright as she reached out for him. Ultra cuddled her close to his chassis. The thought of Megatron holed up in that small cell, gravely saying that he forgave all of his actions that had brought a veritable Pit unto him…

A bead of optic fluid plunked on Astraea’s faceplates before Ultra realized that it was his own. He held Astraea to his chassis, her helm between his shoulder strut and neck, and stroked her back with one servo as he blinked his optics. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need for an apology. Cry if you need to.”

Those five words were what Ultra needed - he tried to compose himself as much as he feasibly could, but in the end the grief was compounded by the knowledge of forgiveness, even in the face of death. He gave a loud sob and closed his optics, shoulder struts quaking as he silenced his vocalizer.

A small servo he realized could only be Rung’s placed itself on his upper arm. Ultra gave silent sobs, his chassis heaving with each spring of his intakes, tears flowing freely from his shut optics.

When he felt he could speak again, Ultra reset his vocalizer and gave a shaky sigh as he continued stroking the sparkling femme’s backplates, making quiet cooing noises as he tried to calm her down. She squirmed and made distressed noises, small servos flailing.

“It will be a long process,” Rung said softly, moving his servo. “But over time the pain will become more bearable.”

Ultra thought of the loved ones he’d lost in his life cycle, and nodded. “And eventually,” he continued for the therapist, “it’ll become something that is easier to carry with you.” He ex-vented slowly and looked at the femme, now settled back in his arms with her face to the sky. She was staring at passing fauna overhelm, flitting around in the air.

Her servos reached out, skyward, and she warbled.

.-.-.

Optimus Magnus had never been out to his predecessor’s residence. When the celebrations over a certain warlord’s death and the intense media coverage of the subsequent Decepticon trials had lessened, Optimus had contacted Ultra Magnus and arranged for a visit.

He selected Bumblebee, Bulkhead, and Sari to tag along. Of the immediate group he considered to be his family of sorts, they had been the only ones that hadn’t seen the sparkling yet.

Optimus piloted the shuttle and smiled at Sari, who was perched on the console and peering out of the window. “We’re almost there. Don’t get impatient.”

The techno-organic crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot thrice. “I’ve never seen a sparkling before. I’m really excited!”

Bumblebee piped up. “Bulkhead and I didn’t get to see one either!”

Clearing his vocalizer, Optimus said, “I haven’t seen a sparkling in quite a while. This will be interesting, and I’m sure Ultra Magnus will appreciate having some company.” Tightening his grip on the control and exhaling as he guided the shuttle toward the one little home among the mountains. “As far as he’s informed me, it’s mostly been him and the sparkling.”

He pulled out the landing gears of the craft and settled it on the backside of the abode, as Ultra had requested. When the group disembarked, Ultra was standing outside. A brief smile crossed his faceplates and he nodded at them. 

“I’m glad to see that you found us without much issue,” he said, looking at Optimus as they ascended the steps. “At least, I hope there weren’t any.”

The current Magnus smiled and nodded. “This is the only building in the immediate area.”

The smile dropped off of Ultra’s faceplates and he sighed. “We’re a fair distance from the nearest settlement, yes.” He opened the door and let them in. “She just woke from a nap, but please still keep the noise to a minimum,” Ultra said as he closed the back door and dipped into the berthroom, emerging a few kliks later with a plump, sleepy little bitlet who was rubbing her servos over her optics.

Optimus smiled when the bitlet moved her servos from her optics and gazed at him, chirping curiously.

“We have visitors, Astraea,” Ultra said quietly, stroking his digits over the femme’s helm.

She was so chubby and her optics were bright, full of curiosity and some sort of wisdom beyond her young age. Now Optimus understood what Red Alert and Ratchet had meant when they said that Ultra had done a good job during carrying. 

“Hi there,” Optimus said as he knelt to one knee before Ultra, looking the sparkling directly in her pretty optics. He reached a servo out to her and laughed as she reached her hands out and wrapped them around two of his digits. “You threw everyone on Cybertron for a curve.”

She looked at him and chirped.

Bulkhead and Bumblebee surged forward and Optimus straightened his posture, stepping aside and watching them get into the sparkling’s faceplates. Both younger cadets had absolutely ridiculous grins on their faceplates that Optimus couldn’t help but mirror.

“Aww, she looks like a small Ultra Magnus!” Bulkhead said, patting the sparkling’s helm.

“Well she don’t look as old though.”

_ WHACK! _

“Hey!” Bumblebee exclaimed, rubbing the back of his helm and glaring at Bulkhead. “What was that for?”

“For bein’ really disrespectful, what else?”

“Cool it you two,” Optimus said with a warning tone in his voice, looking at his predecessor holding the curious sparkling, her wide optics gazing at everyone in the room and warbling softly. “There’s no need to fight.”

At that moment he saw a small form ascend the air, fluttering in front of the sparkling’s faceplates.. A big grin crossed her face. “She’s really cute!”

Astraea blinked her optics up at Sari, clearly surprised at what a strange creature the techno-organic must have been to her new optics. She chirped and reached a servo out, and Sari landed on the small hand. The sparkling squeaked, but instead of drawing her servo back in disgust, she reached up with her other servo. Chubby digits poked at Sari’s side a little bit more roughly than necessary.

“Hey, I’m not a toy!” The girl was indignant as she lifted into the air, higher than Astraea could reach, and looked up at Ultra. “Does she think I’m a toy?”

Ultra looked down at the bitlet and adjusted his grip on her. “She’s merely curious about you.”

A chirp of intrigue from Astraea proved the point. She gazed between her carrier and the strange, definitely not a full Cybertronian hovering a short distance away. 

The weight of Megatron’s request was heavy on his processor, and Optimus cleared his vocalizer. “I was wondering if I might be able to speak with you in private for a little bit, sir.”

Ultra shifted his gaze up to the red and blue-armored mech, and his optics dimmed a little bit, his expression changing from a happy smile to something much more solemn. Biting on his lower lipplate, he nodded and then addressed the younger cadets. “I’ll be putting Astraea in her berth, if the three of you would like to keep her company.”

Watching the two younger bots and techno-organic excitedly follow Ultra Magnus back into his berthroom, Optimus sat down at the edge of the long seat and stared ahead at the small library that the older mech had on the shelves. He wondered if those datapads were new, or if Ultra had kept them since he’d been in office.

Optimus got to his pedes and picked a datapad out, activating it.

It was a datapad with medical information regarding carrying cycles. In the margins of the text were some written notes that he recognized as Ultra’s style. Some of the notes had a date and time of solar cycle pointed to a piece of underlined text, and Optimus wondered what it was for.

A voice spoke nearby. “I ceased keeping track of developments when the attempt occurred.”

Helm snapping up, Optimus turned and looked at the old mech, who smiled wanly at him. He turned it off and shelved it. “Developments?”

Ultra gave a minute nod. “I wrote the moments down when I first felt her move, when I first felt her kick. Things of that nature. But, as I said, I ceased tracking them when she and I were nearly offlined.” The older mech sighed, and Optimus saw how his shoulder struts visibly drooped, weighed down. “What did you need to speak to me about?”

How did one tell someone that they had something that a dead mech walking requested be delivered to the recipient? He’d been wondering that since Megatron had passed the datapad to him through the cell bars and pleaded for Ultra to receive it.

There really was no proper way to say it.

Optimus cleared his vocalizer. “I’m, uh, not sure if you know, but Megatron waived his right to a final speech in lieu of a final request. His request,” he reached into his subspace, “was that this be given to you and to your daughter.” He brought the datapad out, holding it towards Ultra Magnus. 

For a brief moment, a look of apprehension crossed the former Magnus’s faceplates, and then Ultra closed his optics and reached out for the datapad, taking it from Optimus’s servos. The younger Magnus said, “I promised him that I’d  make sure you got it.”

He watched a myriad of emotions pass over Ultra Magnus’s faceplates, mixtures of surprise, relief, and grief. Watched those blue optics close and pale servos tighten their grip on the datapad, as if the little piece of tech were his source of life. The mech reopened his optics and stared down at the screen.

“I… I don’t know if I will be able to handle reading his words,” Ultra said quietly. His tired blue optics looked up at Optimus, and the young mech reached out and put a servo on his arm. “Please forgive me if I have to excuse myself.”

Optimus blinked his optics, wanting to say that there was no need to ask for forgiveness in the first place, but he decided against it and merely nodded. 

The screen lit up, illuminating Ultra’s face as the old mech sat down on the long seat next to Optimus as he read the text on the datapad. The young Magnus looked back at the datapads on the shelves, not wanting to stare at his predecessor and make him uncomfortable. Until a klik in, out of the corner of his optics, he saw Ultra raise a servo to his face and heard the sound of a very faint sob. Optimus turned back to Ultra and saw the stricken look on his faceplates.

Before the younger Magnus could ask what the message contained, Ultra slowly lowered the servo that held the datapad until it hung limply between his legs and his other servo moved to cover his optics. His shoulder struts, then his whole frame, shook as he sobbed.

“Sir?”

“I’m sorry,” Ultra whispered, not moving his servo from his optics. “I couldn’t.”

“Did you finish it?”

“Yes. H-He told me that he loved and f-forgave me, and to please t-tell Astraea,” he moved his servo away, a few droplets of optic fluid streaking down pale faceplates and plunking on the screen of the datapad, “that he loves her and will protect her from wherever he winds up in the afterspark.” The elder mech took a few moments to compose himself, and then sighed. “There’s a message for her as well. I want to read it, but… I’m not going to.”

“Why not?”

Optimus saw the cogs turning in Ultra’s processor, faceplates showing his emotions and thoughts. It was very strange to see - he’d been so used to the stoic Magnus of his younger stellar cycles who was very hard to read.

“Because it is a message from him to her,” Ultra said quietly. He turned the datapad off, and Optimus watched him as he looked at the shelves built into the walls. After a few more moments, the old Magnus seemed to think better of what he’d been thinking, and then placed the datapad back in Optimus’s servos. “And I don’t need to read it to know what it might say.”

The current Magnus stared at the datapad in his grip, then blinked his optics in confusion. “Why are you giving this to me, sir?”

Ultra’s faceplates aged a couple more stellar cycles in that moment. “He asked me to give her the datapad to read his message when she is older. If I am still functioning, I will ask for it back. If I’ve joined the afterspark by then… would you please do it in my stead?”

Storing the datapad back in his subspace, Optimus nodded solemnly. 

“There’s a small, encoded vault embedded somewhere in the wall of the office,” Ultra said quietly. “I don’t know if you’ve seen it. But it’ll be safe in there.”

“I’ll take care of it until it’s needed, sir.”

Ultra gave him a rueful grin, and then looked over a shoulder strut in the direction of the berthroom. “I believe we should probably check on them.”

Optimus nodded, and followed his old leader as they made way back to the sparkling and the younger cadets.


	24. Maybe I'll See You In Another Life

Something rustling to his side woke him. He opened his optics, slightly panicked, before small servos touched his arm. He looked at his side and moved the thermal sheet slightly, revealing bright optics on a small, pale face.

Astraea peered at him, optics bleary. “I had a bad dream.”

Ultra gave her a small smile and turned onto his side, allowing her to snuggle close to his chassis. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

The youngling shook her helm. “It was really scary. I don’t wanna think about it again.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.” He covered her up to her shoulder struts with the blanket and gently stroked her face, watching as she closed her optics and leaned into the touch. “You may sleep in my berth tonight, but just a small warning that you’ll be woken when I wake up.”

She scrunched her faceplates, and clearly she was rethinking having come here in the first place, before she apparently decided it was a fair trade off. Astraea nodded and stretched, yawning widely as she snuggled into her carrier’s embrace. Ultra watched as she placed her helm against the armor over his spark chamber.

Enveloping the young femme with his electromagnetic field, Ultra kissed her helm and watched, listened as her systems powered down to minimum and let her go into recharge. Her servos curled into fists and she put them up near her faceplates, just as she always did.

Even in her recharge, she was ready to fight. Just like her sire. Slept, just like he did.

His spark ached for the old warlord. In his processor’s optic he saw Megatron laying on the other side, both of them holding their sparkling during her nightmare. 

Ultra made sure that Astraea was truly in recharge before he settled into recharge himself. 

His internal alarm woke him up a few cycles later, and Astraea was still fast asleep. He moved very slowly, unwrapping his arms from around her so as to try not to wake her, but he hit an impasse when he had to pull one arm out from underneath the femme. She had to get up either way - she had a lesson with her sensei. The earlier they were up, the earlier she would be alert.

“Astraea,” he said gently, slowly sliding his arm out from under her and watching as her systems slowly booted up and her optics opened, blinking. “It’s time to wake.”

Her response was to grab one of the mesh cushions and pull it over her optics. “Can I sleep more, carrier?”

“Of course,” Ultra said. After pausing for a moment, he lifted the femme into his arms and made his way out of the room. She whined near his audio receptor, protesting tiredly.    
“I wanted to sleep more.”

“And you did. You never specified whether you wanted to sleep one nanoklik or one cycle more.”

Astraea huffed, but her protests ceased. Ultra gently set her down on the long seat in the common room and opened the door to the energon storage unit, fetching cubes for the both of them. He gave it to her, watching closely as she merely stared at the liquid but didn’t drink.

“I’m not going to force you to drink it now, Astraea, but make sure you do so before we leave.”

Her dim blue optics stared at the liquid in the cube as she lightly swirled it around, sighing heavily, something that Ultra knew meant that she wanted to talk about something.

“You have something on your processor.”

The femme, after a brief moment, nodded and put the cube of energon down on a nearby table and then sat back, crossing and then uncrossing her arms over her chassis.. “In my dream I was in front of a lot of bots. They were cheering but not cheering. I dunno what it’s called. But they were throwing things at me too. Someone came up and had a long stick that had this thing,” Astraea made a motion with her servos, pressing her wrists together and touching the tips of her digits, “on it. And… and it...” she trailed off, voice shaking, her optics tearing up.

For a moment, Ultra stared, and then moved to hold the bitlet close, stroking her helm as she cried. How he hated to see her cry, but he would never tell her to cease.

“It hurt a lot, carrier,” she sobbed, one of her servos coming to cover the center of her chassis. “It hurt a lot. I woke up and my spark hurt.”

“Did it linger? Does your spark still hurt?”

Astraea shook her helm. “It was quick. But it hurt a lot. That’s what woke me up and why I went to your room.”

Ultra swore that if Megatron was waiting to greet him in the afterspark, he would deck him in the faceplates. Likely it was a complete accident, and had been suggested that they were simply figments of the femme’s imagination- but the non-memories of Astraea flying, fighting, and now meeting a demise that was far too similar to the details that Optimus Magnus had relayed to him over the stellar cycles made him doubt that theory quite severely.

He wondered if it was possible that memories from a creator could be imparted onto their offspring in traumatic moments, such as death. But it would be eons before a working hypothesis could be devised. Astraea was one of about a hundred new sparklings that had emerged from a pair of bots, her own birth heralding a new generation.

Really, she was an experiment of sorts.

“You’re thinking,” her quiet voice cut into his reverie, and Ultra looked down at her bright optics that were, for now, free of tears. “What are you thinking of, carrier?”

He gave her a small smile and stroked one of her antennae. “Many things. I’m simply sorry that you had to go through that. However,” he gently pulled her onto his lap and took her small servos into his, marveling at how miniscule they still were after all these stellar cycles, “at the very least, it was a dream. It won’t happen to you. I can promise that.”

Astraea looked at him with her bleary, bright optics, and in that moment she was back to being that newspark huddled against his chest, new and slippery and squirming, wailing in fright and wanting her carrier. She nodded solemnly.

“Come now,” he let one of her servos go and grabbed the energon cube she’d set aside, “drink this before we go off for your training. I don’t want you exerting yourself on an empty tank.”

Astraea nodded and dutifully drank the energon down, holding the cube in both of her small servos.

.-.-.

_ “I hope to Primus that she never has to use these skills in battle like I did, but I still want her to learn from you. She needs to learn from the best, and you are it.” _

_ Jazz tilted his helm to look at the little femme, sleeping against her carrier’s side, and Ultra couldn’t help but widen his grin when Jazz smiled. “I’d be honored to teach her. Too bad Master Yoketron ain’t around, ‘cause I think he’d enjoy teachin’ her.” _

_ Ultra thought of the elder cyber-ninja and how he’d looked up to him. He stroked Astraea’s helm. “She would have adored him, just as she already adores you.” _

_ The cyber-ninja nodded solemnly. “She’d have loved Prowl too.” _

Astraea was the oldest in the class, as she always was. She was also one of the taller ones, looming over most of the class but another bitlet was a full stellar cycle younger, yet a full helm taller, and one was her same stature and height.

Despite her bulkier frame, she had become quite nimble and swift on her pedes. Ultra remembered in his much younger stellar cycles, when he had been just like that. Now, he was simply old and his joints weren’t in the best of shape. He simply sat and watched as Jazz put the younglings through their basic paces.

He’d asked Jazz if he’d preferred the class of younglings over the class of the older bots that decided, with the war over, that they had time to pick up new skills. The cyber-ninja had told him that the sparklings were his favorite, because they came into the dojo with little bias against the spiritual aspects of what he taught. Most of the grown bots scoffed. 

Astraea held her helm high, optics and audio receptors clearly rapt at attention as she followed everything that her sensei did. Some of these younglings could barely stand on their own two pedes - if she closed her optics and concentrated enough, she could stand on one.

A snickering noise came from someone on Astraea’s other side that he wasn’t able to see, but he had a feeling he knew whom it was, from what tidbits his daughter had told him.

“She can’t even stand on one pede with her optics open!”

He saw one of Astraea’s optics open and her helm turn slightly. “It’s lot better than what you can do.”

“Cool it,” Jazz said warningly. Ultra saw the cyberninja look at Astraea, and the movement of half his faceplates told of a wink in the little femme’s direction. “We all start progressin’ at our own paces. ‘Sides,” he put his other pede down and the other younglings followed suit, “she’s been at it for longer than any of you have. Cool it, Rocketblast.”

Rocketblast was surely the image of his carrier, with the astronomically sized chin to go with it. Ultra stayed in the shadowy back where he was and resisted the urge to come to his daughter’s defense. In his spark he knew it would only make things far worse. 

The little mech, blue and some shade of pearly white, walked up to Astraea, who turned to face him and crossed her arms over her chassis. He was her same height, but if the future were to go by, Ultra would be gleeful on the solar cycle that she passed her antagonizer.

“My carrier says that you should’ve never been born, and I agree with my carrier. You’re stupid.”

Astraea crossed her arms over her chassis, but her optics betrayed the defiant stance she took on, showing the hurt in them that Ultra wanted to soothe. “Well your carrier is stupid.”

Rocketblast smirked, his optics gleaming. “He also says your carrier is missing his processor.”

“My carrier isn’t missing his processor, thank you.”

“And that the only thing your carrier is good for is being a Decepticon whore.”

One thing that Ultra sometimes forgot himself was how much of Megatron Astraea had inherited. Her pale faceplates grew dark, and then before anyone could so much as move she lunged at the mechling, yelling and pinning him to the floor. The group of sparklings erupted in shouts, some of them goading Astraea on as she punched Rocketblast with every bit of strength and fire in her frame. The mech yelled and put his hands up, screaming as his faceplates were viciously dented in.

“Whoa!” Jazz swooped in and managed to grab Astraea, pulling her off. “Not cool, ‘rea, not cool. You,” the cyber-ninja put Astraea down and held back as he gave the instigator a sharp look, “need to be nicer to other bots. That wasn’ nice of you to say.”

Whatever it was that Rocketblast retorted with, Ultra didn’t care. He stood up and walked onto the floor, watching the younglings part way to let him through, and picked up Astraea. She was anger epitomized, aggressively curling into his embrace, her helm tucked in the space between his shoulder pad and his neck. He could feel the hateful glare she fixed on the little mech.

“Jazz,” Ultra said quietly, turning to the cyberninja when he heard his admonishment of the instigator, “I’m going to take her home. We’ll resume this in a decacycle.”

The cyberninja’s visor didn’t betray his expression. “Sure. Be talkin’ to Sentinel. Not that it’ll do much good.”

“Indeed it won’t.” Ultra cupped a servo around the back of Astraea’s helm and made his way out.

.-.-.

The voyage back home was quiet. Ultra shifted between being upset and feeling sorry for the femme, and wondering if there had been more incidents that had occurred that he didn’t know about. When he put the personal craft in landing mode and locked the gears in place, he looked over from the pilot’s seat to the one in the back, where Astraea had her arms crossed and was staring out the window, quite blatantly avoiding his gaze.

“Astraea?”

No response. The only movement from her was the tightening of the line of her mouth.

Ultra sighed and removed his restraints, getting to his pedes and undoing the little femme’s own. She didn’t move her gaze from whatever it was she was looking at out the window, but she uncrossed her arms over her chassis to allow him to remove it. 

“Astraea?”

Still, the femme refused to meet his optics.

Primus. She truly had inherited both his and Megatron’s streaks of stubborness.

“Astraea,” Ultra sighed as he sat in his pilot seat again and swiveled it to look at his daughter in the optics, “I’m very disappointed in you. Jazz has made certain to teach you and your classmates how to rein in your anger and spite. Rocketblast I cannot speak for, but I know I have taught you far better than the example you exhibited today.”

The admonishment got a faint reaction in the form of the femme closing her optics, but not moving her faceplates from where they were, staring out of the window.

“Know that this does not mean that I do not love you. I do, very much so, and I would hope that you are not angry at me for expressing my dismay with your behavior.”

She reopened her optics, and the light in them had dimmed. Ultra leaned forward in the seat ever so slightly so that his servos rested on his knees. A period of silence passed them by.

“Astraea, you cannot stay silent forever.”

Astraea’s shoulder struts went slack, and then she turned to finally look at him. “You don’t know the stuff they say about you carrier. All the time. It’s Rocketblast but it’s a lot of the others. They say it all the time, Jazz tells them to stop and talks to their carriers,” she stopped, and then Ultra noticed then how her voice began breaking slightly, “but they keep saying stuff about you.”

He knew the answer now. But he wanted clarification. Taking a deep in-vent, he asked, “What do they say?”

“They say you’re a whore. A Decepticon whore. That you made a mistake. And that I’m your mistake.” 

Astraea’s bright optics were now past the point of simple bleariness - her tears were streaming down her faceplates, her body shaking with rage. “They tell me I’m not an Autobot.” The look in her optics was one that broke Ultra’s spark, and how he wanted to scoop her into his arms and never let her go so she would never feel this way again. “Is that true? I’m not an Autobot?”

Megatron’s words came back to haunt him - their sparkling, proof of union between Autobots and Decepticons, would struggle to be accepted in Autobot society. No one would be able to look past her heritage.

Astraea’s optics were bright and blue, just as any other Autobot. She was the spitting image of him, a formerly respected and revered Autobot Commander. Aside from her sire on the day of her birth, she’d yet to come into close contact with any of the Decepticons that still functioned. Yet, the patches of dark grey, the slimmer shape of her arms and servos than his, the slighter protrusions from the sides of her helm that weren’t present on his mattered far more than her character.

Ultra wished that Megatron were here and that he could have been able to provide some sort of comfort to the little femme crying in her seat. 

“You were born an Autobot, my sweetspark,” he said quietly, using his nickname for her that he only used in times of extreme emotional distress. He got up from the seat and knelt next to Astraea, taking one of her servos into his. “I am and always will be an Autobot. You came from me. By default,” he gave her a wry grin, “you are one as well. Do you feel in your spark that you are an Autobot?”

Astraea quelled a springing sound that emanated from her chassis, and the nodded.

“And that is what matters. Don’t listen to them. This is not only coming from my place as your carrier,” he stroked her arm and then her face, watching her lean into the gentle touch, “but you are worth far more than any of them will ever be.”

That seemed to cheer up the little femme, if at least temporarily. She nodded and then slipped off the seat, taking Ultra’s servo as he led them off of the shuttlecraft and toward the house.

“They’re all stupid, carrier,” she said quite suddenly as they reached the back patio.

He looked at her. “Why do you say that, Astraea?”

“Because they can’t think by themselves. If they did, they would see that you’re not what they always say you are.”

Her comment brought a smile to his faceplates.

.-.-.

He’d let her off with a warning to not engage in fisticuffs like that again, and let her outside again to play in the field. She darted into the tall grass, giggling, and Ultra smiled at the rustling movements and the slightly-panicked flights of cybersparrows into the sky before turning to the datapad in his servos. He traced his digits over his scrawl, remembering the feel of the stylus in his servo as he wrote each note while his other servo stroked the curve of his middle to elicit movement from the then-unemerged femme.

Then he came upon the last note he’d written, and wished he’d had the presence of processor back then to continue with it. Ultra looked up in time to see Astraea leap out of the grass, and smiled as she made her way back over to him.

She’d survived. That was what mattered in the end of all things.

“Come play, please?” Astraea begged, gently tugging on the one servo that didn’t hold onto the datapad.

Ultra nodded and set the datapad aside, getting to his pedes with slight difficulty - his joints creaked, but he would entertain the femme as long as he could. He let her lead him to the field, and her giggles matched the ones he knew from so long ago.

“Here,” she said, holding a bright blue flower up to him and smiling, “it’s for you.”

Looking at the flower she held out to him, Ultra returned the warm smile and took it between two digits and tucked it in the space between one of his antennae and his helm.

“There’s a patch of them over there,” she pointed a few steps away. “I’m gonna get you some more, hold on.”

He wanted to tell her that that wasn’t necessary, but by that time she’d already let his servo go and bolted the short distance over. The top of her helm disappeared under the grass for a brief few moments, before she ran back over to him, a bigger bouquet of flowers clutched in her servo. “They’re pretty, just like you.”

Ultra couldn’t help the flustered heat that rushed to his faceplates as he crouched down and let Astraea tuck the flowers in the spaces between both his antennae and helm. As she proceeded with her task, the happy grin on her faceplates slowly waning. The light in her optics, previously bright, slowly dimmed.

When she was done with her task, Ultra picked her up in his arms and carted her to the seat on the back patio, setting her down to his side.

“Now you’re the one thinking,” he told her quietly, prompting her to look up at him. “What’s on your processor?”

Astraea looked unsure, her faceplates slightly scrunched up in confusion, as if wondering if she should say something or not. Then she sighed, and asked the question that Ultra knew was a long time coming. “What happened to my sire? Everyone but me has a carrier and a sire, and no one will tell me about him, except that everyone hates him. So where’s my sire?”

Ultra stared at the young femme tucked into his side and stroked his digits along her arm. “Your sire… loves you deeply. But for your safety and mine, he couldn’t stay with us.”

His answer was, quite obviously telling by the youngling’s faceplates, unconvincing. He turned more words over in his processor, and continued, “We had hoped that the fervor against him would have died down by now, but it is apparent that it didn’t.”

“What’s my sire’s name?”

This was going to require sweetened energon, and datapads for reference. Ultra stood up and looked at the sun setting over the mountain range, then gestured to the door. “It’s time that you knew more about him, Astraea. Come.”

The femme blinked her optics at him, and followed him inside.

.-.-.

There was something about this particular message from Optimus Magnus that gave her pause.

Astraea made her way towards the top levels of Fortress Maximus, nodding and giving small smiles at everybot that passed her by. Smiles and congratulations were directed her way, and it was very strange to hear the title “Prime” attached to her name.

“Hey, Astraea! Prime!”

She stopped in her tracks and turned around, looking at the large-chinned mech strolling his way toward her. “What do you want, Rocketblast?”

He looked up at her and raised his servos, palms towards her. “Hey, whoa, I’m just trying to congratulate you! It’s not every solar cycle that someone gets made a Prime.”

Before she could stop herself, she retorted, “Yeah, you wouldn’t know what it feels like.”

The look on her semi-nemesis’s faceplates was very worth it. “Hey! I stayed a Major for a reason! I like putting the cadets through their drills, something you wouldn’t know about, would you?”

“No,” she shrugged. “But bear in processor - I don’t have to deal with backtalk from younglings that have just gotten their last upgrade.” She smiled at him and winked, turning her back to him. “I’ll give Optimus Magnus your regards.”

Throughout her life she’d been entertained by the outrageous things that Rocketblast’s carrier had done to gain approval from her own carrier. Rocketblast was, quite unfortunately, headed down the same path. But she didn’t think of it much further as she ascended on the lift and found herself directly in front of Optimus Magnus’s office door. 

Gaining her composure, she raised a servo and knocked. A moment later, the door slid open.

“I said it already, but I’ll say it again,” the red-armored mech smiled at her from where he sat at his desk. “Congratulations on making Prime rank.”

Astraea beamed, flustered heat rising to her faceplates. “Maybe some solar cycle I’ll follow you.”

“I can see it happening. Astraea Magnus has a pretty nice ring to it.”

“You flatter me. So,” Astraea cleared her vocalizer and tilted her helm at the smaller-statured mech, “you asked me to come by?”

The Magnus’s optics seemed to get even more tired than they normally were. The playful atmosphere of the meeting had disappeared, and Astraea was almost sorry that she’d asked why.

“It’s been a while coming.” The Magnus turned his gaze upward for a moment, and then turned around and fumbled with something on the wall that Astraea saw was a safe. She watched as Optimus Magnus opened it, reached in, and then closed it.

But for a klik, he stayed facing the safe and wall, his backplates to the femme. 

“I was the last mech to speak with your sire before he was executed. In our last conversation, he passed this onto me,” Optimus turned around, and Astraea saw an old datapad clutched in his servos, “and asked me to give it to your carrier. When I did, he gave it back to me and asked that I keep it safe.”

Astraea pulled her lipplates in a bit, biting down on them with her dentae, and then held her servo out. The Magnus placed it in her servo.

“Why didn’t my carrier keep it?”

Optimus sighed. “He said that he wanted to wait until you were ready. But he passed into the Well before that chance came for him. On his deathberth he asked me to decide when to give you this. You’re Prime now. So I think you’re ready to read it.”

Astraea wrapped her arms protectively around the datapad, holding it to her chassis with her forearms crossed over it in an X-pattern. She closed her optics and nodded. 

.-.-.

She sat cross-legged on the berth, servos on her knees, staring intently at the dark screen of the datapad. The will to read it was there, but it was so far overtaken by apprehension that she may as well have been paralyzed as she were.

What awaited her in the databanks of that datapad, she wondered. 

She tapped her digits on her knees, biting down on her lipplate. 

Since her carrier had finally told her the truth of her heritage, why as a youngling she’d been victim to vitrol completely undeserved, she’d struggled and then come to terms with it. Megatron, the old Decepticon warlord, as her sire was a strange thing to think of. Over time, she’d put it out of her processor, focusing on the now. Getting her education, going through the Academy, rising through the ranks in the Elite Guard.

And last stellar cycle, caring for her carrier as he quietly slipped from this realm. It had been expected, but that didn’t mean that it hurt any less.

Even now, Astraea felt tears springing to her optics. She wiped them away and sighed.

A faint memory that wasn’t hers threatened to rise to the forefront of her processor, the first time since her carrier’s passing. She saw her carrier’s face, joyful as he cradled her to his chassis. A feeling of intense love coursed through her systems. She paused, then decided that now was far better than later on. She grabbed the datapad and activated it, preparing herself for the many things she could possibly read.

Bracing herself, she pulled the words up.

_ Astraea. My daughter. My sparkling. I knew you for the briefest portion of a solar cycle, yet you have stolen my spark. _

_ I have made many mistakes in my life cycle, now that I am at the end of it and can look back in hindsight. Atonement has come too late for me.  _

_ The circumstances of your conception and birth were not favorable for any of us, but most of all for you. You will have to live your life cycle with the knowledge that your sire and your creator have taken lives. We acted in such selfish manner, sending our soldiers to their deaths, dancing around one another until our passion exploded into a fire that could not be contained. But we gained one good thing from that fire. You. _

_ My dreams since your birth have been of you. I remember the sound of your first cry, how beautiful it was. I remember how your carrier cried in joy, cradling you and holding onto your small frame as if it were the very reason for his life. His optics closed, his servo holding onto your helm as you were tucked into the crook of his neck, raising his helm as if to the sky to thank every deity that has ever been conceived that you were there and you were safe. I remember your optics opening, your servos wrapping around my digits.  _

_ How could mechs like your carrier and I create something so pure and so innocent. _

_ Know this, Astraea: no matter the sins your carrier and I have committed, you are a clean slate. You carry no burden of what we have done. You will carry your own, but never ours.  _

_ I go to my execution tomorrow knowing that you are in good servos. You will have your carrier with you. For the short time that I have known him so intimately, I know he is a wonderful and honorable mech, and he will put you before everything in this life. You and he will have a support system to provide what I will not be able to. _

_ It is my hope that your carrier will let you know how much I loved you, and that I continue to do so wherever I may end up in the afterspark. You both will be the last image I see in my processor, and the happiness that you now exist will be in my spark, before I go. _

_ When you read this, please give my love to your carrier. This cannot have been easy for him to do. But I am sure you have been raised well. I regret that I won’t see your accomplishments. I know they will be many. Live for your carrier. He lives for you. _

_ My deepest love to you, Astraea. I will watch over you from wherever I go. _

_ -Megatron _

.-.-.

The wind was a familiar feeling on her armor as she reached the mountain range she’d called home. She took on her bipedal mode and sighed, looking at the empty and darkened windows of her younglinghood home, waiting for another inhabitant. Perhaps Optimus Magnus, when he retired. He could take after her carrier, set up a tradition.

In the fields behind the back, where she’d played away so many solar cycles, was a monument dedicated to her carrier, with a statue of him wielding the Magnus Hammer and calling lightning from the sky while standing on a large, cubical base. In the space within the large cube, were both of her creators’ remains. A favor to her done by Optimus, when the memorial for her carrier had concluded and he signed a secret order to relocate Megatron’s remains.

Astraea stood in front of the statue, among the blue flowers that had sprouted at the base, looking up at her carrier’s regal faceplates. If not in life, then in death could he and her sire be together.

Perhaps one solar cycle, a statue of her sire could join her carrier’s. But she couldn’t hope for it now.

She pulled a small datapad from her own subspace and, after looking the note over and encrypting it, she left it at the statue’s pedes. 

When she drove off, the screen of the datapad lit up.

_ I hope you both are proud of me. I love you both. And I’ll see you someday. Until we meet again. _

_ -Astraea Prime _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the end. It's been an incredible journey writing this, as heart-rending as this piece was, and my many thanks to those that reviewed and left kudos. Though I may not have responded to everyone, know that I read each comment and treasure them.
> 
> Regarding an alternative ending that some asked for, there are unfortunately no plans for one to be posted. However, the next ficlet that I should be posting is much, much sweeter than this. I hope to see some of you taking comfort in it when it is posted :3c <3
> 
> _~Andromeda Prime~_


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